A trip to Susan, Cherrapunji - Riniki Chakravarty Marwein

wound down window framed meanings

of children: our giggles, our petite

fingers and their merriment of scooping

fog into a borrowed car, far from how

those bigger boys after school jerked

a couple of albino butterflies into a winter

sunned jar, but aunt wasn’t one to

juxtapose, she wasn’t taught the

chuckles and the chirps, she signed her

disapproval to our joyous notes on

her flat face, dipped in her own puff

of silence, familiar to us, she was always

our sulking footnote.

so we went on with our fog nick thing till

a flat tyre made us jump out in a little

queue and while our adults sorted out

the car mess,

we shifted our bodies to the roadside’s

edge, dropped our heads into the veiled

atmosphere to make out tops and ends

of lush greens, our sight-seeing interrupted

by aunt roaring her cry towards us, pushing,

packing our little masses into our half

-fixed car, with her awkward quick, flapping

hands in rhythm with lines her mouth kept

striking

“be careful, those fog-

monsters, their spectres, their thrill is to

pluck children, to phantom them.”

aunt’s swift tongue was shaping her into

an anti-hero, we jerked at her rod-arm

crossing over our bullied bodies to

wind up the window, turning us into giant

skinny butterflies shut in a borrowed car.

we wheeled till uncle and driver got reluctant by

a roadkill. the still thing looked like curled

clay, pink blood spotting it like roses

over a little grave, it made us quiet

as a prayer, ending

our little kidnapping mood, but not

the air, uncle sped like in a chase, like

our tyres killed that rural dog,

like the fog thought it was its kinder,

it grew thicker like an avenger. aunt barked,

“for Jesus’s sake, it’s a half-fixed borrowed car!”

she plucked the cross, down fell the beads of rosary

worn by car’s mirror, not to her bother, she leaned back stiff,

like an awkward tomb, till we finally hacked into the clearer arterial

course, where we heard hints of her familiar place,

uncle knew to let aunt out, her clogged

spirit turned wind, fading her into water

colour, into her daughter Susan

two years dead by the waterfalls.