Black Wind

and other poems

- Deepti Naval (Mapin Publisher / ISBN 81 88204 412)

The Art of Self-Destruction

The Art of Self-destruction

No one does it better

I have mastered the craft with great skill

A craft not easy to master, mind you!

Working each stitch carefully into another

I knit a brilliant pattern together

And once it is there

This enviable piece of work

I pick at one loose end

And my creation threatens to fall apart

Amused & intrigued, I start pulling at it

And watch how stitch by flimsy stitch

The unstringing begins . . .

I smile to myself, and keep going further

How effortlessly the links come apart

With what ease the pattern disintegrates

This fragility offends me

Alarmed, yet curious to see

How far I can destroy it, I go on and on

Until the whole thing falls into a

Disassembled heap!

Elated, I sit again

Amidst the debris of another relationship

Unrest - I

(Bombay riots - Dec 6, 1992)

I drag myself from bed to study, to kitchen, to bed

Now and then, the lift moves, but no one steps out,

Drop the newspaper and stretch for my coffee

Seventh cup since morning -

Flip channels on the television set

The only thing alive and kicking

I step out on the balcony, and stare across the street

A yellow moon disentangles itself from the bare tree

Moves above the dish antenna

The sky outside my window turns murky

There it comes again, the dreaded evening

Trapped within myself, I sit and pull at

A single loose strand of hair . . .

Unrest - II

(Bombay riots - Dec 6, 1992)

In the uncanny stillness of the night

A woman sobs hysterically

Somewhere in the building

Nothing to do with the frenzy out there

It's the unrest within

She's run out of her 'uppers' &

There's no getting out

Whispers crowd the staircase

After a short debate, they pour

Three glasses of wine down her throat

Thump her back to sleep . . .

I move back from the door

Drink some more of the black bitter thing

What I need most tonight is a

Clean break from myself

The city breathes heavy

In sluggish discomfort

The sea is so still, pretends it doesn't exist

On the dark smoky skyline

Beyond the maze of concrete

I see a wild inferno

Wonder what burns now

A mosque or a temple . . .

Substitute

One word bothers me - 'Love'

Try to find a substitute for it

I go through pages and pages

Of the black & white print

Nothing fits

The closest I can get to it
Is 'Death'

Unchalked Squares

For Akash

On the brink of a winter fog

Assyrian women mourners

Shrouded in black

Fling sudden white

Hands to sky

Dancing in their inner squares

Soft, hard & liquid contours

Gather their pale feet

Wailing on the inside

Beating their breasts to

Silent drums . . .

Drums, which later, will

Beat loud & wild, in the empty

Room of my solitude

I will then go join them

In their lamenting

Beat with them my blues &

Find my un-chalked

Squares, in the green night

December 22, 2003

Anandgram, Delhi

Here, Stand In Line

Here-

Stand in line, Pee!

One at a time ...

Strip!

Fold your sari, drop it in the bin!

Now walk back . . . not that way

Here, inside the lock stupid! Lie ...

Prepare to take needles in your skin,

Pretend, go on, pretend –

The Voices do not exist

Do you like the taste of metal?

Get that expression off your face

She's only doing what women do

With themselves

Squat!

And don't squirm!

Strap yourself, you're next -

Would you like blue marks on your

Skin, or purple?

Stop! Watch your wrists,

They could bleed

Go on,

Clutch that rubber in your teeth

And lie still... I say, still. . .

Ok, on your marks, let's go –

It's time to play

'Sanity-Sanity'

There were other aspects to being confined;

aspects which took me a long time to fathom.

Each day unfolded for me something I could

not understand at that point of time. Obviously

I could not in my dreams comprehend that for

some, the term 'confinement' could be a

synonym for the word 'freedom'.

There was one woman who kept coming

back to the ward, beaming. She would

purposely do something or the other at home,

for her people to send her hurtling back to the

ward. Each time she'd walk in, the doctors

would nod their heads and smile.

'Aa gayi? Back eh! Feel at home now?'

'Yes, Doctor, NOW I feel much better!' She'd

grin.

'Isko bhi chaine nahin hai ... jab tak yeh

vaapas na laut aaye!' A nurse next to me

grumbled in not such a low murmur.

The sparkle in her eyes remained with me for

a long time.

Beat The Flight

Beat the flight

Out of their fucking minds

Grill them, drag them

Shove them in the bin

Strip them, shave them

Strap them, break them

Split their skulls

With electric things

Char them with sanity

Make sure they crack it!