Red blood, stains the earth
In a mockery of life
Yet our peace remains
Wars are waged far, elsewhere
As images prevail
With eyes open wide
Splinters embed as mirages
Sleeping a sleep drenched in lye
Unmarked graves scream
As piled upon, are their keeps
A rubble of home
Loved ones and more, shattered lore
Of times simple treasured sure
Where are the answers
For life’s hypocrisy clear
Senseless greed revered_
जागा सूरज हुई सुबह नई, लौटा चंदा था कुम्हलाया; गुमसुम, खोया, उदास जरा,
जाने यूं कबतक अलग- थलग, अनछुई रहेगी मेरी दक्षिणी धरा ।
चंदा था फिर मायूस बड़ा, चंदा था फिर मायूस बड़ा ॥
युग बीत गए, सदियाँ बीतीं, यहाँ वीरानी का ही साया है,
जाने मेरी दक्षिण धरा से मिलने, अबतक कोई क्यूँ न आया है,
जाने मेरी दक्षिण धरा से मिलने, अबतक कोई क्यूँ न आया है।
माना कि है दक्षिण दूर जरा, अँधियारे से भी घिरी यह धरा,
पर मुझसे भी मिलने आए कोई, सदियों से मन में यह आस है,
ढूँढे मुझमें क्या राज़ भरा, देखे मुझमें भी क्या खास है !
चंदा के दक्षिण ध्रुव के मन में, युगों –युगों से यह आस है,
है पास मेरे भी ऐ मानव, तेरे लिए कुछ खास है,
वैसे भी बहन पृथ्वी मेरी, तुम-सब के ही तो पास है।
यही सोच- सोच मायूस चंदा, आगोश में नींद की समाया है,
जाने मेरी दक्षिण धरा से मिलने, अबतक कोई क्यूँ न आया है,
जाने मेरी दक्षिण धरा से मिलने, अबतक कोई क्यूँ न आया है।
संध्या घिरने का हुआ समय, लौटूँ नभ में, चमकूँ फिर से, यह सोच चाँद ने ली अंगड़ाई,
तभी दक्षिण धरा पे हुई हलचल, किसी के आगमन की शुभ खबर आई ।
खुश था चंदा, वह झूमा भी, विस्मित भी था, कुछ ठिठका सा, कुछ शरमाया,
जब दक्षिण ध्रुव पर चंदा के, एक छोटा यान था टकराया।
आगंतुक यान था चतुर बड़ा, बेखौफ़ भी था, सीधा था खड़ा, फिर कदम चार चल दिखलाया, ध्वज भारत का था साथ लिए, भारत से मैत्री संग लाया।
चंदा ने भी तब इठला कर, मैत्री का हाथ बढ़ाया था। मुस्कान लिए बोला चंदा - देवों की भूमि से तू आया दूत, मेरी दक्षिण धरा हुई अभिभूत।
धन्य हुई मेरी धरा अंधियारी, मिटी वीरानी, बढ़ी मेरी शान।
युगों – युगों तक जग जाने यह, क्या दे सकते हो कुछ ऐसा प्रमाण ?
चतुर यान, था नाम प्रज्ञान, फिर चला बड़े आराम से,
इसरो व अशोक-स्तम्भ के, चिन्ह बनाता शान से,
सत्यमेव जयते तब हुआ अंकित, चन्द्र-धरा पर बड़े मान से ॥
जय हिन्द ॥
the alarm rings
exactly at five thirty,
the sun is barely awake
but the terracotta sprawling
lazily about the house
has woken up to
the sound of foghorns and
morning bells— full throated,
exploding into a prayer
like the gush of steam
rising up from a whistling teapot.
mother, with groggy footsteps
marches up to the kitchen,
yawning and clicking
where the glistening crockery
has already made
itself prepared to chatter
while breathing in
fresh winter morning air
tinged with the lingering
saltiness of last night,
and the herbs have
all groped
their pedicles
on counters that have to be
wiped and dried
and wiped again.
mother turns on the stove,
a beautiful blue flame,
she puts on
the teapot
and begins to brew raw
tea, this early in the morning.
she likes her tea with
tulsi and ginger,—
a remedy for bad throats
she keeps ready in the kitchen
where
she always sings,
where the herbs,
clinging tightly to their
tender shafts
softly sing with her,
their eyes swaying under its influence,
and then
fixating on the teapot
where they are added,
well, counted and sniffed first,
and then, carefully
snucked in.
the whole house
awakens to the aroma
of the milk breathing
through the herbs,
and the loose tea leaves,
inhaling and exhaling
as if with a patience
that is disposable.
father gathers the cups
and saucers
and mother strains tea
with a love
that knows no absence,—
naïve and innocent,
and while they sip
this crisp, undried
concoction,
they are reminded
of the perks
of being young
and youthful;
juvenile
and artless;
how they aren't
either anymore
and they
s t e a d i l y, s l o w l y,
in their own sweet time,
come to laugh about
this dichotomous
autumn of their lives.
Someone lives in me
Someone I don't yet know of
But “who” knows me
Knows me well enough to hold me
the parts that I feel unworthy of
And to hold it in a way
that it hurts and
sucks the life out of itself
Withers it from inside
makes it weak and mild
But at least it's being held
In a way it might not have wanted to
just like she didn't want to be left
Left the way she was, then and now- like always
Left by those whose fingers brushed her
And she thought they will hold her
Left by those whose words touched her
And she thought they meant it
Left by those she found her peace in
And then found herself in pieces
In front of them and in their absence
Especially because of their absence
And sometimes because of their unwelcoming presence
She is tired now, being in pieces
And told she can love in peace
But fear -her foe sometimes her friend
Tells her to stick to pieces
Fear controls her, sometimes without her knowledge
Sometimes she controls fear- enough so that it stays
The only thing she feels control over is her fear-
But at least she feels something, when in pieces
If not fear, at least she feels broken
If not broken at least she feels held
If not held, at least she feels absence
Because absence has been her feeling
A feeling known to her, a feeling she feels belonged to
In which she loves and loses
Loses parts of herself she found in others
Parts of them in which she found in herself
She loses it all in their absence
And calls it the fate of love
A love she could never have
A love she only felt, because she gave
Because she felt giving
And because it was meant to take her away
So that she meets herself once again
This time in their absence
She lives, maybe thrives but at least learns to survive- atleast with herself
Sometimes all by herself
Other times in their false presence
But at least in pain
Or away from it
At least tired but not stagnant
Like her love stories, like her stories of pain
Stories of absence, neglect, hurt and sorrow
All that she bears alone now
As fate must have it
She has to bear it alone but maybe be less lonely now
Because she has herself- her ultimate God- her own being
Her own spirit- one with God
The one who cannot be seen yet be felt
Unlike the absence of others,
God to her is present
And with God only, her fears are less present
At least for a while
At least until the sun sheds its light
Maybe a little beyond, minutes after dawn
When cries hit her, it hits God
To hold her again, but this time with love
The way she wants to be held
Because only God can
And only God did it the way she wanted to be held
Maybe she accepts it, at least this time
Because God's absence is known to her
At least for a while
And she cannot afford that-
At least for her life.
- Vasundhara Pande
In the life’s hustle
Restless the body rests,
The psyche roams a loner in the bustle;
The lamp is lit bright;
Longing is in high tide, that
The dusk has brought in quiet;
Time bears a heart of stone;
Hurt it is, a fated loser
Shalt thou come to be known;
The night sky hangs sad, dull-red;
In the day, in its sleep
The devil did shuffle its star-bed;
Let not the flickering hope die;
The darkest night too may
A golden dawn, hide.
***
ایک آزمائش کا پتلا بنایاگیا میں
لذّتوں کی چاہ دی پھر سزاؤں سے ڈرایا گیا میں
اس کھیل مے کی اس کدر آزمایا گیا میں
خاک کے ڈھیر مے بھی نہی پایا گیا میں
کمال یہ نہیں ہے تو اور کیاہے
قتل بھی مینے کیے ،نایب بھی بنایا گیا میں
عدالت بھی میری ہے مجرم بھی میں ھی ہوں
ہاں مینے ظلم کیے اور ناحق ستایا گیا میں
زمین و آسمان کیا دیکھتے ھو رشق سے مجھے
حکومت دیکے بھی بےبس بنایا گیا میں
ہاں تیری نعمتوں کو جھٹھلا نا پاؤنگا
تیرے احسان تلے بہت دبایا گیا میں
گرور دیر تک جہاں مے نہیں ٹیکہ میرا
خاک سے بناکر، خاک بنایا گیا میں
ہمیشہ ہاتھ مے کھلونے نہی ملے مجھکو
کبھی باتوں سے بھی خوب بہلایا گیا میں
Ek Aazamaish ka Putla banaya gya me
Lazzaton ki chah di, fir Sazaon se Daraya gya me
Is khel mein ki is kadar aazmaya gya me
Khaak ke dher me bhi nahi paya gaya me
Kamaal ye nahi hai to or kya hai
Qatal bhi mene kiye Nayib bhi banaya gya me
Adalat bhi meri hai mujrim bhi me hi hu
Hn mene zulm kiye or Nahaq Satayagya me
Zameen o Aasmaan kya dekhte ho rashq se mujhe
Hukumat deke bhi bebas banaya gya me
Haan, Teri naematon ko jhuthla na paunga
Tere Ehsaan tale bohot dabaya gya me
Guroor der tak jahan me nahi tika mera
Khaak se banakar khaak banaya gya me
Hmesha haath me khilone nahi mile mujhko
Kabhi baton se bhi khub behlaya gaya me
This poem talks about the Status, Situation and experiences which “Human” faces and Holds in this world. the 6th stanza “haan teri naematon ko jhuthla na paunga “ is a reply to a verse in Quran “AUR TUM HAMARI KON KON SI NAEMATON KO JHUTHLAOGE? ” its a very deep philosophical poem if one understands
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.
The parapet was cold,
but not colder than his feet
as he stood two hundred metres from the ground
eager to take the dive of doom
into the limbo.
He tried everything else-
everything that was tainted with
faithless promises, fake love, false hopes
nothing worked,
just another sign of
the failure his mother always believed he was.
It's just that this time
he believed his mother.
As he stood there
at the threshold of everything and nothingness
he gratified himself with one final flight of fantasy
an ornate English funeral;
a family sobbing their hearts dry;
his faithful friends talking things about him-
things he knew
and things he probably will never know.
He lifts his right foot
and flirts with the cold air over the dreadful city.
One last check if the laws of gravity still held.
Down below,
the churning city was as usual,
clueless of the screams of exhausted souls.
He attempts last but one act of bravery
and looks down at
the miniature cars
the specks of human life
meandering between them
like ants building imaginary castles,
dancing to kafkaesque rhythms and
with a jolt in the nerves,
his hands lose heat
his legs lose weight
his spine drains of all blood
and
he cocks back his right leg
retreating back to the terrace.
Maybe he was not ready yet.
There were many battles yet to fight
before he could afford to lose to the final one.
he takes the elevator back to the ground floor
where gravity was favourable
to most of life on this planet.
He survived-
at least for today.
But
what if?
all this while,
what if he wasn't
afraid of heights?
My ancestors disposed the dead
But I make my pen perform the last rites.
My ancestors made marvelous baskets
But I weave worthless words,
Half-eaten by termites.
My ancestors were denied the pen and given pyre
I come from fire, but I am nothing like my ancestry
Because they made music
But I write pain and call it poetry.
This is not written word.
It is a beaten world,
Beaten body, beaten mind, beaten heart,
Where spitting and pissing on fellow humans
Is the divine art that oppressors mastered,
To keep the lesser born fettered
By the fact that 'shit' is what they are,
Which makes me wonder what if, there was no caste?
And instead of shit, a human could be called a star.
What if there was room for Ambedkar, Phule and Periyar?
I excavate my entire existence to write a personal poem
To serve authenticity to readers reeling under reality.
But my pain refuses to identify as pain
After watching innocent men
Being gunned down in a train,
Because of the faith they followed
In a secular country.
If this life is poetry then repetition is its ugliest device,
This repetition isn't nice.
It was repetition not déjà-vu
When a teacher made small children
Slap their own classmate
Because his faith was the same
As the men murdered in the train.
My misery has now lost its brain,
It thinks it is mirth
As I was never slapped because of my birth.
This makes me wonder, what if, there was no religion?
And atleast children were allowed to remain human.
What if I confessed that I know exactly,
The futility of writing poetry
Where I keep talking of the wrongs
I cannot right
I made poems out of my mother's plight
But could not put it to an end
Women in my country are cut to bits,
Brutalized and raped every second.
Knowing that others suffer worst
How do I voice my own suffering?
The abuse, the violence, the eve-teasing.
And as I begin to think,
What if, there was no gender hierarchy?
It strikes me that that the Supreme Court said
It is not eve-teasing but 'Street Sexual Harassment'.
And I can't emphasize enough
The importance of language in oppression’s acknowledgement,
How the words we use are the vehicles of empowerment.
Hail the Supreme Court's handbook on combating gender stereotypes,
Why not learn from it the art of making wrongs right,
Why not for once be outright,
Why not try stopping this entire insanity,
Why not have a 'Handbook on Combating Inhumanity'.
Twentieth Marriage-Anniversary
Come, awhile sit with me, now
Or during the day whenever you are free
On this auspicious day of our marriage anniversary;
Come, let us peep into ourselves
With the mind’s eye, dear lady
And speak not; muse over; the years gone twenty;
Let us ponder over that happened good between us
And also over the bad,
About the future too, so the years to come aren’t sad;
God created males and females
In animals, in vegetation and in the human entity,
In His creation, pairs only, He created in plenty;
Let us be aware of His grace and our existence,
Why amongst all, He did us in a pair cast?
Merciful heaven has given us a chance,
Paired us in this birth to come clean on our past;
Let us be honest in thought and watch our actions
And honor His will and His pious soul-selections;
Presents make the present, shall soon be the past,
Not much longer in life these endure and last;
Forgive; forget; let us dive deep into inner peace
And give each other presents that forever last.
***
My mother left food,
For the stray dog.
Not the left-out food,
For the stray dog.
Thanking fate,
Wagging tail,
Emptied plate,
Without fail.
The dog in turn
And in return,
Safeguarded her,
Escorted her.
From the bus stop,
To the house.
And to the bus stop,
From the house.
For small little food,
The dog always stood.
In times of need,
Like a true friend indeed.
The dog was human,
More than the human.
Pure than purity, Symbolizing humanity.
Never the dog failed,
To come out in favour. Never the dog failed,
To bark at troubling neighbour.
Agitated neighbours, Complained about the dog.
The authorities arrived, And captured the dog.
Dragged the dog,
Into the open van.
Barking stray dog,
Resisted and ran.
My mother rushed
Hearing dog’s pain, Helpless dog looked,
At my mother in vain.
The van with the dog,
Left the street gate.
My mother cried,
Looking at the plate.
Now this story,
Turned history.
Now that dog is no more And my mother is no more.
Remained memories of sanity.
Invaluable lessons of purity.
Lifetime treasures of sanctity,
And traces of humanity.
तू बिजली अपनी चमक दिखा ना दिखा,
मुझ बादल को बार-बार टकराने की आदत है।
तू नज़रो से अपनी कब तक मारता जायगा,
मुझ मौत को बार-बार जिन्दा होने की आदत है।
तू मंज़िल राह की रानी कितनी भी दुर दिख,
मुझ मुसाफिर को उमर भर चलने की आदत है।
तू मेरी जिन्दगी को औराक़-ए-परेशां जैसे भिखेर दे,
मुझ कातिब को सिमेट के लिखने की आदत है।
तू परिन्दा किस सरहद की मजाल बांध दे,
मुझ शजर को वफा निभाने की आदत है।
तू लाख कोशिशें करती रह अन्धेरा करती रह,
मुझ चिराग को रोशनी देने की आदत है।
तू इन्कार करती रह बातें बनाती रह,
मुझ भूलकड को याद दिलाने की आदत है।
पंछी हूं पर पंख नहीं
पिंजरे में हूं पर क़ैद नहीं
आजाद हूं अपनी सोच से
आसमां की तरह जिसका अंत नहीं
पर मेरे सपनों पर हैं
बंदिशों की जंजीरें
फिर भी मैंने अपने सपने को
हैं मजबूती से पकड़ा
मां कहती हैं कि मुश्किलें भी तो
हैं जीवन का एक हिस्सा
पर ये भी सच हैं कि
अपनों ने ही तो हमको
हैं आगे बढ़ने से रोका
करते हैं प्यार, चिंता भी पर
पंछी को उड़ने से रोका हैं
फिर भी हूं मैं कोशिश में
क्यूंकि हर पल हैं एक नया मौका
मेरे सपने भी होंगे सच
कुछ वक्त बेशक लग जाए
इन जंजीरों को तोड़
मुझे अपनी कहानी है लिखनी
आसमां छूना मेरा मकसद नहीं
ज़मीं पर पांव के निशा ही हैं काफी
खुद की पहचान है बनानी
अपने सपनों का सफ़र बस हैं बा़की।
The wind scale of a still land scape,
An utter rush of flitting in the air.
A daze occupation of inactivity and a sleepy tree all over in time.
I don’t know if calls of it exist,
I don’t know if destination waits a bit,
I don’t know if flit of the breeze makes it to the end but only if I could know it.
And only if I could hold it.
The divine of travel did not make it right,
The terror of fright we could not realize,
There’s a still in already still-
we never came to be known and just how fast our fingers turn wrong.
Never in time we know truths.
It’s never a wonder to hold the silence- it’s just so fantastic that we know it exists.
Getting ourselves wrong and happenings of wrong both exist in a simmer of frightful end,
If we could jump the ways we would know the plight of uncured ‘tends’.
A day tomorrow- no one’s sure and today passes in the repent of yesterday’s loss.
Was this a life God intended?
Or just we created a solace of unfinished in a dark thought.
No way round do we reach the answer,
No way round do we approach the silence.
It is not we, I realize but already a lord sits above.
But still not getting if it really brings the end?
For the moments forget memory but memory do remembers the
moments.
If this brings end I hope everyone lay unfinished before the eternal right approaches our wrong,
This way we could share the last one word,
This way we would embrace our silences better.
For what brings end is not so in itself and what do end is not surely a wry of unfinished but a way to the finished
that would soon end.
I wake up.
In an unusual move, I peep through the curtains to catch a glimpse of the starlit sky. The moon must've risen a certain way tonight.
I pull a book called If I Were a Runaway from under my pillow and leave the house with nothing but vigorous feet and an aimless mind.
The roads look like runways; except, they're dark. They certainly look better suited for crash lands than take-offs. I linger in front of the playground for a while. When I realise that I'm not used to enjoying the sight of children pulling their knees to their chin and burying their heads in them so as to compensate for a forgotten mask, I leave. The glass doors of huge state-owned buildings and corporate headquarters fascinate me; they seem to be the only clean thing about them. But now, as I stand in front of one, I don't see angels behind me in my reflection. I mean, my foggy glasses certainly did create the atmosphere for an apparition but whatever.
I continue to walk, making sure to step on every living creature that I look down upon, both literally and figuratively. The fact that I end up in front of a head-shrinker's clinic seems so unrelated to this chronicle that it could as well be a part of a different narrative. But now that I'm here I decide to fetch some drug samples to cure my mind of this aimlessness. I enter, and looking right through me, he says, "Are you sure that it is your wandering mind that brings you here, and not your stagnant heart?"
Your long legs that whisk you away
With each step imperious leagues
Would set any little girl adrift, but I
Was busy keeping pious pace.
A scuttling girl shadowing her father’s stroll
We approach the marketplace
A weeklong of work, but now you’re here with me
Hemmed in by the throng and din.
My canary umbrella is another snag
Dangling more like sack than shed
In my frail fingers it frolics from side to side
A funny little thing under glaring rays.
When your eyes turn back, and they always do,
I am falling behind, they seem to state.
So I strike the ground and I spite my feet
A wager of your approval against self-hate.
I maneuver through the towering swarm
Of buyers, just to sight
The back of your grey shirt, it’s my Sunday game
When I win, you’re by my side.
Holding on to your rugged pants then I hope
For you to look down, see I’m here
Lowering your gaze you check the firmness of fruits
While my eyes repeat, look I’m here.
The objects on display are charming all
Stacks of crayons, green and red
Fishes sheathed in silver perfect for a princess crown
At my father’s behest, they swing on seesaw scales.
I follow him then to the lanes where they sell goat meat
Standing by the bloody sludge, I wait
He discerns the good ones from the bad
To me, they all seem dead.
At last with bags bursting at the seams
He walks straight back, I wobble beside
At last he retires to the sofa
And he sees me, I close my eyes.
Four evergreen Ashok trees with their dense foliage,
Guarded the brick red walls of the house of my childhood.
Along the same wall in the purple vine of the bougainvillea,
Chirped and chattered, a host of sparrows, in their nests,
Making merry in early spring mornings - as much as they could.
Rose bushes - red, white and pink, dainty shuilis and a mango tree;
Three big coconut trees and a towering areca palm;
And maybe there was a guava tree or was it a tree of neem?
Yes, there was a deep well too where the maid washed clothes every morn;
And they all lay in the backyard garden of this abode – once pleasant and warm.
The doors have gathered rust and so has the little iron swing,
Where my sister and I went flying, up the skies so deep in blue;
Shrieks of glee in our young voices, what had we to worry?
Cobwebs adorn the crevices and the pale-yellow walls have crumbled,
And vacant windows stare, the house of my childhood is in ruins, could it really be true?
I hear the murmurs and the laughter, in the playgrounds, in the rooms;
They waft in the air carrying memories in their wake.
I also hear a faint bark, perhaps of the dog that lived with us for fourteen years,
Where did we bury him? Was it next to the sugarcane tree?
Teary eyes and a heavy chest– what is this dull ache?
I recall the wrath of the ashok trees and the sturdy coconuts in the backyard,
When wild winds and raging storms of the monsoon befell them,
They swayed around, back and forth but always held ground.
Alas! One spring afternoon the areca nut gave in, and with it, the woodpecker vanished too;
One with a feathery crown that drummed its beak in the trunk of the mighty tree, lost in the mayhem.
I hear songs too – Oh! Thinkin’ about all our younger years
Of singer Bryan Adams – in that husky raspy voice of his,
Those were the best days of my life
My sister and I, sitting atop the roof of our house,
The smell of rain in the air, our souls unfettered – we felt bliss.
The aroma of mother’s local fish curry with hot rice,
Hurried us to the dinner table post nine,
As we all sat together – father, mother sister, grandmother and I,
With the radio station playing soulful melodies,
Lulling us into hours of blissful sleep thereafter.
And during unending hours of power cuts - we bathed in the moonlight outside;
How resplendent the night looked – the glow of the moon in the grounds;
Our wrists ached while we flicked the bamboo hand fans,
Smiles in our faces – as its gentle breeze caressed our skin and played with our hair,
Cast in darkness for hours – families would roar in glee as houses light up again.
The house of my childhood stands tall still, hollow and cold,
It lies somewhere in the dense jungle of concrete, lost and forgotten,
Bereft of inhabitants – of sounds of laughter and happy memories,
Like a guitar with a broken string or the tearful adieu of a beloved.
I often see the house in my dream and wake up –with inexplicable grief and fear.
Mommy, mommy, look at this!
screamed my little toddler,
look at this baby dancing like me
all reported in a constant breathless commentary.
Christian mother of a single child
who is three, terrified I get, rushed in
chanting Appale po sathane,
to get some holy water and the rosary.
An increase in my delay to check
fuelled the cheering intensity.
My kutty, chasing something in the living room
increased my jitters, made me doubt
the annual blessing rituals and the parish priest.
I started my prayers to give me strength
to face the evil, but my prayers
were drowned by her giggles, Oh Gosh!
I wondered if there was another soul,
or is my child confused with the karpam poochi.
Oh, wait! She did mention another baby.
Confused and paranoid, still chanting.
Now I enter, all worried and sweaty,
to see my child pointing randomly,
switching her gaze constantly
from the wall to everywhere between.
hypnotised, too stunned to speak,
she blurts out, pointing out at her shadows.
Look, Mommy, the dancing baby.
My kutty almost got me. Gosh! Now, I am relieved.
I am happy that my baby recognises,
she receives a cookie as a treat.
Thanks to this rush, which I needed,
I learned a few prayers which I had skipped
I am also embarrassed about how I responded
though I work and I have a Ph.D.,
Cheers to the age of discovery.
Now I connect with the dark ages,
Renaissance and the history
This is how you figured out a lot of stuff, isn’t it,
most of it was pure discovery, the rest
labelled as inventions per necessities.
Ada pavingla! I had to be three, to see
the world gets beautiful when ignorance is bliss.
It is okay not to know everything,
thanks to her for showing me how to live.
Life is a journey, and learning is a part of it
The memories created in the process are worth.
As for my little kutty, now I join her in the game
to show a fish and a bird flying.
I need to brush up on SUPW classes more than prayers.
I can finally breathe.
Glossary
Appale po sathane – In Tamil, roughly translates to ward of evil here used as Go devil go.
Kutty – Tamil word for little one
Ada pavingla – Tamil slang which has a contextual meaning mostly used as an exclamation – you sinners
Karpam poochi Tamil for cockroach
SUPW - Socially Useful Productive Work
बीती छुट्टियां,
मैंने अपने घर पर बितायीं
हर बार,
जाता हूं,
सबके लिए कुछ - न - कुछ लेकर
कपड़े, खिलौने, मिठाई
और एक उम्मीद,
दोबारा फिर से घर लौटकर आने की
हर बार,
लगता है,
जैसे कितना कुछ बदल गया है
या फिर,
जैसे कुछ भी नहीं बदला
मेरे पुराने घर में,
कुछ नई कुर्सियां आ गई हैं
और कुछ नए बर्तन भी
मगर अब भी,
एक कुर्सी है,
जिस पर बैठ कर
कुछ वापस से ज़िंदा हो जाता है
एक थाली है,
जो घिस - घिस कर,
कुछ पुरानी हो चली है
पर अब भी खाने का स्वाद,
उसमें खाकर ही आता है
हर बार,
वापस जाते हुए
बहुत कुछ साथ ले जाता हूं
टिफिन भर कर सब्ज़ी,
अख़बार में लिपटी हुई पूरियां,
कुछ ताज़ी - बासी यादें
और छोड़ जाता हूं
अपना कुछ हिस्सा,
यहीं पर,
फिर से वापस ले जाने के लिए,
अगली छुट्टियों में ।।
I ask the world my fault
the place I am born at?
or the family I am born in?
From the lap of defenceless parents
who have just seen hardship phases
head to toe tangled in the slashes
the colour of their eyes dull and faded.
Unaware about the turn of the destiny,
I was given a life with wings to fly and soar the sky,
In the world where a girl is the goddess
worshiped, respected and is dignified.
But they,
wrenched the new-born for self conceit
to raise their level of money by trafficking
For their pleasure and their entertainment,
From one place to the other,
From one master to the other,
Whipped and Cuffed, Caged and Scud
Those schadenfreudes',
derived every pleasure from my body
the most they could.
Beyond my senses my every breath was tortured
and my died soul was left abandoned.
Though shielded by my parents in womb for nine
but as the journey of thousands miles began
they chopped my wings and the existence lost its way.
Now the life is still outside my window
the sky that was blue has turned out black
the warmth by the sunshine has become a rare event,
the raw wounds on my body are now painless
and my soul has forsweared to resuscitate.
The face that once glowed had now lost its charm
that road once travelled has just harmed.
Now I am my master’s property
I am just a property.
The graven Universe
did nothing except paper poster on walls
years after years many lives get halt
I call them my neighbours,
As now this is my home.