LOVE, THAT
FLIGHTY JINN
I
would have liked to live forever within
the
opaque glass walls of your love. Seeing
the world
through misty eyes. The sun's
heat
softly
tempered to my back. The rain,
a
distant, soothing patter. Not a
drenching torrent
churning rivers of mud and slime
to
drown in. But
the
mist holds demons. Their cries
will
not be stilled. And glass is fragile
Even a
single stone‑‑carelessly flung
can
shatter this sanctuary we built
You
and I‑‑
out of
the power of our dreams
this
vapourous castle
which
can stand‑‑
only
till the magic lasts.
Loving, my faltering steps take root
reaching, touching
my
heart, a wing, a feather
caressing
you. All night…
your
warmth filling me. Battling
the
shuddering dark
that
waits, a patient hungry dragon
But…
love,
that timid bird
that
flighty jinn. Comes
to
roost only when it wishes
Not in
response to my call
or yours
No
matter how urgent the need
No
matter how desperate the hour.
I HAD A
FATHER
When I
was young and had a father
Like
any other child.... I
clutched his hand. Walked
by his
side. Hung on his smile
watched the crow's feet fan out
from
the ends of his eyes
Felt
love
a
velvet cushion
a
tight roof against the rain
a warm
hand to hold
and
melt the ice of fear
But
one day‑‑
the
roof blew off
the
hand grew cold
and
nothing was left
but
leafless trees
stretching wan fingers
that
tore at my hair
as I
walked through the darkness. The bell
tolling in my ears constant...insistent
The
moon, a dented globe
Washed
out, spreading
rancid, milky light
that
filled my mouth with sourness
I
heard the sound of weeping
and
wailing
White
walls of grief
arose
about me
smelt
fresh earth
felt
the horror of
Clods
hitting him. Boxed in wood
lifeless, true. But I shuddered
to
think of the clods hitting him.
Later,
woke on my own nights
airless,
feeling the weight of the earth
squeeze out my breath
engulf, absorb me into itself
Earth,
mother
what
makes you so hungry
so
desperate to swallow me whole?
Digest, ingest
make
me a part of you again?
I that
would walk on air
And water
resist
your pull
Live
on forever
freely
riding the wind. Not
bogged
down in earth bound clay
Live
till the day when
the
grave will empty
and
he, they, will come forth whole again
when
mud, when clod
will
yield forth
flesh
and blood
bone
and hair
breath
and laughter
I
await the miracle
the
Resurrection and the Life
The
rebirth of long lost love.
A PEARL WITHIN AN OYSTER
There is a place
Where jewelled cobwebs
Dot the hillside
My father’s smile
Never wavers
And the rocks
Feel solid beneath my feet
The mist swirls in the valleys
A potent sea
Spewing stories
Which my brother
Conjures out of the vaporous void
A magician
Spinning a different web each day
And yet it is I
Who tell tales now
Fishing in that timeless sea
Of the past
Finding
Old shoes
A rotted corpse
But sometimes
A pearl within an oyster…
Strange things happen
In the sweepers’ colony
TV aerials sprout
Music blares
And a child defecates
In the open
While an eager pig
Waits
To gobble it up
The same porker perhaps
Is given hot chase
To the ends of the town
Captured
Brought squealing
To its death
And blood spurts
A mighty fountain
Pulsating
As the sound of drums
Of revelry
That night
In the sweepers’ colony
The pup we adopted
My brothers and I
Saved from rock pelting boys
Cherished
Slept with at night
Was declared
Persona non grata
When the ayah said,
“Memsahib, that pup belongs
To Chandru the sweeper.”
Kripal, who wields the broom
With a mighty flourish
Raising huge clouds
Of obfuscating dust
Got ambitious
Actually landed a job
As a waiter
In the casteless city
Delhi
Graduated in time
To the German Embassy
And one day, he said,
“Hang on to the children, wife
I’m off to Germany.”
Within a year
He was back
Scattering garbage
Raising dust
“I didn’t like
the German desh,” he said
“Home is home
after all.”
Even if home is…
The sweepers’ colony.
IN THE TIME
OF MANGO BLOSSOM
In the time of mango blossom
Pain stabs
A pale spear
Like the scented spikes
That weight the tree
As eager
Breathless
It awaits
Fulfilment
The yearly ritual
The time of fruit
Our time was a flower
That bloomed
And withered again
But—
The seed remained
Dry, insignificant
Almost unseen
And yet—
It held promise
Of life
Of blossom
Colour, fragrance
Within its husk
The thoughtless wind
Tears the flower apart
Scatters its petals
But…
The seed rides its back…
Do Not Weep Lonely Mirror
Sought me in turn, when spurned
Its emptiness grew too vast for it to face
Emptiness, that black hole into which we must fall
Each one of us
The mirror pursued me even as I fled it
Time’s wrinkles embedded deep in the
Coils of my being
I fled the truth imprinted on its shining glass
The truth of countless lies
That rustled like the fugitive wings of birds
Evading the trapper
Not knowing how futile my flight
Because
The world might be large but
Mirrors are everywhere
And truth, the chameleon finds many places to hide itself
In the starlit eyes of a lover perhaps
The trusting warmth of a child’s palm
The adrenaline burst of the winning post
Or the murky pool of failure
Even in the flashing pane of a neighbour’s window
Or the reckless flow of your pen across a page
I could not escape, and yet how long is it
Since I have known that the face in the mirror
Is not my own
Not the girl who wept in the dark once
Or boarded a train on a winter morning
Basking in the sun’s warmth
The woman who found babes in the wood
Under a coverlet of fallen leaves
Or listened to the urgent summons of a conch
Bellowing in the dark behind hidden doors
Who knows where it is, the face I would call my own
If not in the mirror that faces me?
It is enough that it exists
Whether flowing secretly in the veins of a leaf
Blowing in the dust of a storm
Or gleaming in a sunset cloud
So do not weep lonely mirror
Nothing is as complete as emptiness
Nothing as loud as the silence that speaks
A POEM IS A
STRANGE THING!
A poem is a strange thing
Sometimes
Bursting out
Whole, complete, perfect as a newborn babe.
Sometimes
Carefully cut to measure
Like a garment
Lovingly crafted
Embellished, embroidered
And proudly worn.
Sometimes
An abscess
Growing, suppurating
Then bursting open
To spill its pain
For all to view
Sometimes
A skeleton
Festering in one’s cupboard
Till it’s brought out
To face the sharp cold glare
Of friendly faces
Who cry,
So—
This is what she has been hiding all this time!
MISPLACED SOUNDS
A girl with naked eyes
sings
at my window
a song
only I can hear
a song
that the wind
gathers into its wide apron
and funnels into my reaching ears
which do not need a hearing aid
like my mother’s
did
like my mother
whose world grew small and secret
as it grew still and soundless.
Each day
the birds withdrawing their music.
Each day
sound shrivelling like a dying seed,
as she watched faces frowning,
as she watched faces smiling,
and each day
she frowned and smiled
along with them.
Along
with the fleeting memory
of the renegade sounds
that had escaped the labyrinths of her ears
to prowl like vagrants
on the highways of the air.
2.
The whistling thrush trills no more
as it dips its turmeric coloured beak into the puddle
below the garden tap.
The tap
has vanished along with the sounds
that fled my mother’s ears.
Vanished along with my mother
who followed those sounds.
There’s nothing but dust where it stood
and there’s nothing but dust where she stood.
And black as the granite that holds her memory
is the void beneath the water tap,
black as the glistening thrush’s wing
is the void that has eaten up its music.
3.
But
a girl’s voice
still
floats across the dark waters
rides the air waves naked as day.
Sharp
as the unheard song
that echoed in the abandoned labyrinth
of my mother’s ear,
and
somewhere…
my heart beats so distant,
yet its whisper stamps itself on my page.
THE GHOST
OF CHRISTMASES PAST
1.
One day, Papa said, he decided
to give up cigarettes. From forty a day,
he came down to none. Only
on Christmas Day,
when the swarm of visitors has diminished
to a select few
sipping their rum in the exhausted drawing
room
does he pick up a Capstan Navy Cut
from the carved Kashmiri box
and blow smoke rings for our delight.
While a lonely piece of cake
sits on a chipped plate
surrounded by indifferent crumbs.
The Big Day has not ended we know
we have yet to negotiate the rocky path
to the brightly lit room
where Santa Claus will distribute gifts
for a price:
poems squeezed from reluctant minds
mimic songs that have long forgotten their
tune
but I cannot, I will not parrot ‘Daffodils’
not even to earn a gift. Rejected, it lingers
under the Christmas tree,
another lonesome participant in a festive
rite
lies there accusingly as I lurk sullenly in
the shadows.
Ishwar chho mero
gwalo
kai baate ki kami
raunli
The Lord is my shepherd
I shall not want.
but I want, I want, I want
an unconditional gift, Lord
from the night which sucks up fading carols
and flings them among
the silent pines. Already
a ghost, Christmas is slipping away
searching for its past,
amidst the cake crumbs, gift wrappings
and the cigarettes in the carved Kashmiri
box.
We will smoke them my brothers and I
alone on New Year’s Eve
we will blow foetal smoke rings
aborted by choking coughs
which drift heavenwards to join
the Christmases gone. And
the New Year arrives stamping in on frozen
feet
singing,
Ishwar chho mero
gwalo
The Lord is my shepherd,
I shall never want, I hope
for unconditional gifts.
2.
Papa decided to give up cigarettes
I have given up sugar for brief intervals
even forsworn alcohol—moving around
in a haze
batting away invisible smoke rings
that coil like persistent ghosts. Like
the ghosts of Christmases which live
only in the past. Without any future.
3.
But will any sacrifice help a child
who shivers in the alien dark
too distant and too alien
for mortal eyes
does the Lord accept trade offs
as they say? Or does he cheat,
as I suspect? A fast for longevity
a fast for good health
but can a hollow belly
bring joy to a marooned child?
Questions cluster like smoke rings
stinging my eyes.
I cannot ransom the marooned child
I cannot return to the smoke filled
drawing room with its scent of rum
the chill warmth of its glowing embers
turning to ash, grey
as Papa’s hair.