18. While My Mother

While my mother pored over reams of wisdom

Compiled from every obscure hamlet and mighty kingdom

That rose and rotted away through the years,

I grew adept from daily practice, not peers.

My father’s Catalyst, passed down as is tradition,

A daily reminder of him and his mission.

The surface smooth, worn by his meditative fiddling;

The mysterious, near imperceptible pinpricks I found riddling

Its otherwise flawless contours, marking every weathered inch—

Too regular to be by chance; the pinch

Of the Thorn as it pricked my thumb

Until a callus made it hard and numb,

Then onto the next finger. At last, when

Calluses showed I’d healed a hundred times ten

Times was when I was recognized as one

Among the Higher Healers. What is usually done

Is that the newly worthy healer is ordained

As elevated thus by the mentor who trained

Them. That day, my mother marked the occasion

With a handshake and, with some relentless persuasion,

An explanation. The story behind the tiny holes

In my father’s Catalyst. Despite the many tolls

Time has levied, I cling to it still:

A story that, with me, Justice shall kill.

17. Quieter

Quieter, sadder, angrier, driven: my mother went

About her days and nights. She spent

Hours reading, dove deeper into her texts

Composed over aeons by ancient, esoteric sects

Seeking to plumb the depths of Healing.

A million codices and crumbling scrolls dealing

With any number of sicknesses that plague

All people. Listed symptoms (specific or vague),

Hypothesized cures (fraudulent, inadequate, toxic or true)—

She read and memorized them all. Few

Were the treatises, from the earliest scraps

To the latest volumes—indeed, none, perhaps—

She hadn’t read. And, locked safely away

From prying eye and light of day,

She kept a record of every word,

Line, page and work that even referred

To her burning question: could death be

Undone? Her final answer has undone me.

16. You're Right

You’re right, I said. I have, so far, been more

Inclined to solitude than company.

My life: a solo, not a symphony.

I found in distant jealousy the core

Of what I was. But when you chose to pour

The life and soul of one who bleeds like me

Into my heart, I found some empathy

Begin to well within me. “Hmm. Before

“You say another word, pay heed to this:

“If empathy is what you seek, beware

“Of burning out before you start to glow.

“Like love can thrive and die before a kiss,

“A life’s compassion can be hard to bear

“If borne too fast. Now, watch the Healer grow.”

Not fair Indhu

This is the moment you should have been

making more sourdough bread

or writing those delectable stories

featuring warm, strong women

who are each other’s safety nets

or those food poems about chakka and manga

or texting me about what seeds I could use in the morning smoothie

or walking by the lake, or watching birds

or chatting with me, Anannya and Harry

all of us laughing, being crazy together

or you and I – we should have been talking

sitting in Anju’s Cafe or walking in Lal Bagh

or strolling under the huge rain trees on 11^th Main Jayanagar

or sitting on the shaky stone benches in 4^th Block Jayanagar

talking about trips we took recently or the ones we would together

about aunts and mothers who sang until they didn’t

about the need to carry water bottles

about reading, about writing

about what feminism means to us

about black rice and organic food

about marriage and motherhood beyond

the confines of age

about our relationships – also with ourselves

about kolams, about kalamkari, about life

but never death.

We never spoke of death, stalking us

and suddenly grabbing you.

Not fair Indhu.

We were supposed to meet on 22^nd April

when you said you were “coming down with something.”

Not fair Indhu.

What is to become of all the unfinished conversations

the songs we were supposed to learn together

the poems and stories still to be written and read out

the food and recipes we had to share

the places we had to go

and the wild things we had still to do?

Not fair Indhu.

 

Dear Anannya, (with gratuitous but meaningful poetic image) #happylabourday

 

Because I was tasked with not working today
I produce for you this labourless lay.
Poetry, as we know, is the work of fools
We use no implements, no workman’s tools.
‘Tis but the froth of useless vanity!
Some might say it prevents insanity.
At any rate, Anannya my dear,
April is my most looked-forward-to
Month of the year. When all the world’s
An image to the restless eye, and
Rhythm and rhyme is all I hear. Some
Days you could call it versified fear.
All of which is to say that I,
In words, the value of which many would dispute,
Present to you this, my heartfelt, annual, tribute.

Overheard

 

As organs go, legs could be seen
To carry a tune. From where I sit
A veritable arpeggio of pipes fugue
Into the room. Sheets of parquet
Flooring stream in straight lines
A down to earth scoring, each
Bar a measured note of shine.
They say the real reading of a book
Happens when you lift your
Eyes and look out, seeing inward.
Who is to say where music is
Heard. What master craftsman
Shaped wood and moulded metal
So that each note sang as clear
As the papered, printed, word.

not a poem

 Hello all - I'm still 13 poems short and planning to write into May until I'm done. Anyone else in this position? Also - planning to read more here and comment on more. Am missing being more a part of this community this year!

For Byron, Auden, MacNiece - and Jane

 (3)

Although he died of - let’s call it chronic

It’s hard not to admire Lord Byron.

His rhythms are muscular, even bionic,

His heroes of lusting non-rusting iron,

His heroines either angel or siren.

Yet women write their protagonists Byronic

Which if you think of it is pretty ironic.

(4)

Take the youngest of the Brontë sisters:

What with her writing literally on the wall,

Covering her consumptive fingers in blisters

(Must’ve been hard - she was not very tall;

It’s a wonder she wrote a novel at all).

Yet she’s put out the byronicest of misters

Poor Heathcliff, caught in plots full of twisters.

The Truth of Summer's Lies

 Another luminous night lies laughing On the lawn. Leaves yet to trip into Trees still just twinkles in the eyes Of dawn. Grasses scenting green In the air of snowdrifts gone. It could Be that this warmth is true it could Be that this sky of blue will drop From silver seas to mountains light As morning dew. Words to the wise If wisdom were summer’s meaning When wisdom lies less in the Day than in the dreaming. Hear the Snipe as it flies the wind its wings Sing keening. The courage of winter Will keep though the river weep and Dazzle in the streaming.

Dear Anannya, (with gratuitous but meaningful poetic image)

Because I was tasked with not working today
I produce for you this labourless lay.
Poetry, as we know, is the work of fools
We use no implements, no workman’s tools.
‘Tis but the froth of useless vanity!
Some might say it prevents insanity.
At any rate, Anannya my dear,
April is my most looked-forward-to
Month of the year. When all the world’s
An image to the restless eye, and
Rhythm and rhyme is all I hear. Some
Days you could call it versified fear.
All of which is to say that I,
In words, the value of which many would dispute,
Present to you this, my heartfelt, annual, tribute.

Think of your mother

Think of your mother 

when you see a woman and her son at a café 

each reading their separate books. 

Think of your mother 

when you feel the sharp joy

of seeing the first spring ducklings

still so new to this life. 

Think of her 

when you feel the weight of 

all you must do 

at your small age

or when you remember a 

faraway smell 

from childhood

or when a video on the internet

tells you to. 

Think of your mother gently

and often. 

But most of all 

think of your mother

when you notice in yourself

that depthless generosity 

that only she

could have given you. 

Love it or hate it?

Katrika
Venkaya
Baingan
Begun
Peethabhala
Waangum
Vange
Ringna
Vashuthana
Melongen
Guniea Squash
Garden egg
Aubergine
Eggplant

Brinjal
Do you love it or love to hate it?

sun

Stepping out from the 

shadow of a building 

I am met by a burst of sun

and suddenly all things

are possible.

There is more day than I thought

and more joy to fill it with.

Birds and flowers and small children 

laughing in the street. 

If in this life there are things

that have passed me by 

there are still more 

that lie waiting to receive me.

I can be sure of this 

from where I am standing

here in a patch of sun

at the precipice of

certain goodness.

15. Since When

“Since when do you make other people’s plight

“A matter of concern? For you, the sun

“Is dimmer in the day when on its run

“Across the sky, it slips into your sight.

“And darker still the moon that shines so bright

“For those who suffer, yet choose not to shun

“Their neighbours—burdened, every single one—

“And choose instead to celebrate the night.”

And what, pray tell, might I have done to earn

Such scorn from you? But even as I posed

The question, an epiphany of shame:

My ruminating mind had learnt to spurn

The outstretched hands of friendship. I had closed

My heart to love. For this, I am to blame.  

Planting roses

Between all that is holy 

- Blake, Bach, aurora borealis - 

and that which is full of holes 

- old socks, flat earth theories -

is my garden where wholly

occupied in digging holes 

for roses I become whole

transplanting

There are new trees 

in the covered beds by the river. 

They arrived overnight

from some green outskirt 

where they have been readied

for months or even years.

I know this to be a delicate procedure.

What is moved may not take root. 

But it is nice to think of 

something growing out of sight.

A blessing, fully formed

ready to enter your life

at any moment. 

My childhood home

Take the first right after the circle
it’s the fifth house on the right
standing wholly within the cool shade
thrown by a huge mango tree
the gate is painted cream and black
metal with a wooden frame, the three
red-oxide steps to the main door are lined
by two red-oxide thinnais
on which, if you look carefully
eyes half-closed - you may see
all the people who have sat
stood, chatted, laughed, wept
posed for photos, argued, waited
dreamt – eyes wide open or looking
up into the sky and the mango tree
both holding the whole house
and all its characters – inside their breath.

Visible mending

 

Hole and whole

One so easily 

becomes the other

strangers

In the dim light of the kitchen

two women are laughing.

They have only known each other

a few weeks.

But it would be easy to mistake them

at this distance 

for sisters, or old friends. 

Familiarity works in strange ways. 

I could tell you, for instance, 

that today I addressed a woman 

in her language 

and watched her face soften 

as though she suddenly saw in me

something of herself. 

Love at the Centre

Showing the finger

so many today

celebrated hope and

the possibility of love

being at the centre

not hate and division

Let love win

When all the hullaballoo abates
there will still be hunger – so let
there be food and jobs to get food
and pathways to education for all
to get jobs. Let there be policies to
keep land and spaces safe so all can
grow food, feel safe, walk, take autos
and buses and shared cabs, let there be
music and dance, theatre and singing
clapping together – for that is food too
for the spirit of oneness – shared laughter
separate from separation and judgement
let there be choice available to all in whom
to marry, how to live and love, how to make
the harsh world a better place by simply being
their fullest selves. When all the hullaballoo abates
there will still be hatred, waiting to point your
heart’s gaze at someone or something you so
disagree with – and in that moment
let there be softness in how you turn that gaze
to a wellspring of love – from inside out.

THE INSIDE-OUT DOOR

There’s a door that doesn't really close. It only opens. 

Out and in. Outside, a field pans out to a neighbourhood 

of gabby gossips, winter-orange and summer sherbet-berry 

camaraderie and the indispensable pestering of hawking 

vendors. Yellow-footed green pigeons, ruby-beaked parrots 

and feisty crows lay claim on tall trees, a determined sun 

and torrential downpours sustain the green as the park 

does generations of football and cricket players.

Girlfriends from average families gather on the street

to outgrow their shadows by playing hopscotch. Treats 

and secrets are shared. Sitting on nylon cots, their 

mothers and aunts measure the length of their knitted 

yarns and the salt and acid of their tears. Inside the door 

is a world too. Of a tiny banana grove, a patchwork

of an edible garden of Malabar spinach and bottle gourd,

papaya and guava, a grandmother's cartography of

transplanting wholesale memories of a green home. Inside

is where conversations with the sun and the green birds

happen, where fears are released to the southern wind,

where the promise and disquiet of the outside is

negotiated over fervid postmeridian orange peeling.

Ink

Spilled milk: pointless to shed tears over

Spilled beans: could be worth a drop or two

depending on what's been uncovered

Spilled guts: de rigueur to cry on cue

When blood is spilled, yes, weep and sigh

But what I spilled is ink, this morning

come from India, a cobalt blue

on the white shirt, the stain forming

before I could move, remove or do

anything. Ink, precious, useful, versatile

The Dead Sea Scrolls - ink made  from soot

Da Vinci's notebooks, the scores of Bach

ink of oak gall and iron. Roots, fruits

nuts and leaves and rust and earth

The octopus invented ink three

hundred thirty million years ago

to deceive and hide. The same reasons 

we use ink, to obscure, or camou- 

flage, dissimulate, disguise, suppress

This is why I don't eat octopus

 

inertia

The day moves like slow water.

I fall into sleep then surface 

and fall asleep again. 

My dreams are rich.

I wake anxious. 

When it comes time to take stock

how will I measure the value of my days?

The path back to presentness

is just out of sight.

I knew it once 

until I lost it

somewhere in the thick time of sleep.

A woman's day

 am breathing fevered air into my mask, waiting for my time with the doctor. I see them both, ushered out of the consultation room. An elderly man and a woman. I notice her saree, there is something calm and deliberate about her. He sits in the row in front and I notice three crinkles at the base of his bald skull as he lowers himself into the chair. Crinkles straighten out once he is seated. Her saree is dull fuschia with tiny prints with a zari border. It hangs on her gracefully while her indigo blouse radiates a quiet aesthetic. She is enquiring at the pharmacy while he sits. He walks ahead while she is still finishing up her transaction. After she is done her eye scans the exit and finds him already out. She finishes and calmly walks out carrying all the papers and files. She must've cooked lunch and put them in casseroles so that they could go home and eat hot lunch. 

support system

Last train home

two middle-aged men totter

on the platform.

A hand between the shoulder blades

one temple against another

swaying slowly homeward. 

Voting 2024: Don’t forget to remember

It’s a free country – still.

(And it is your vote that will determine the continuity of that freedom)

If you have a vote, you have the right to choose whom to vote for.

(Don’t take any bullying or bulldozing on this)

Voting is not like betting on a winning horse.

(After the race, the horse can graze and chill but your chosen leader has to serve you)

Our Constitution separates religion from governance and everyone has equal rights.

(Yes! Believe it or not! And because it has not been practiced doesn’t make it less true)

Vote for someone who will work for everyone in the country.

(Your gods can take care of themselves. It is people who need to be served)

Vote with compassion towards your fellow humans

(Just because they’re not hunting you down today, doesn’t mean they won’t tomorrow)

Know that your vote affects us all. So make a safe choice.

(Because we’re all in this together)   

Vote.

(Because it is a free country – still, and your vote will determine the future of that freedom)

Walking down memory lane

Walking down memory lane they call it
coolly overlooking the road repair projects
going on for years now, some stalled forever
with debris lying helter-skelter leaving the lane
nothing like what it was and leaving the memories
no hope of becoming what they once were.

Bread

Why have I never written words in praise

of bread? Out of wheat and yeast and water

I made a loaf this morning, as always

amazed by how good it tastes with butter

When writing a line ending with 'death'

the obvious word to rhyme with it, the one

that leaps first to mind, its opposite 'breath'

In between, somehow find the connection

while paying attention to meter and

sound. Death in a poem is no surprise

It's on my mind. In the kneading the thought

takes a shape like the dough in my hands

It takes time for the long slow rise

onto the page, breath into bread into sonnet.

MEALTIMES AT MOTHER'S HOUSE

It starts with bottle gourd peels julienned pin-thin, 

fried with nigella seeds. For even the discarded 

to find a place of value on your plate is to relive your 

mother’s affection. Once she'd similarly picked up 

your broken feather of a self and nursed it with care. 

Next comes mung lentils with bottle gourd, a cooling 

summertime therapy for the tongue. A piece of fried carp 

brings some bite as the rice mixes with the lentils; 

conversations flow between the mother and daughter;

mild, tempered, crisp. The meal ends with a runny raw mango 

relish. Sweet. Tart. Refreshing like Mother’s plucky spirit. 

Mealtimes at Mother's house hold the delicate, the spicy, 

the complexly-flavoured in a textured, luscious balance.

Like Mother herself. 

waiting for the train with my friends

Alone I would remember this 

station for its filth. 

The group of men in the corner

The pungency of neglect. 

Instead, we are laughing.

Each picking up 

where the last has left off                                     

so that joy is a thing we build together

an endless chain of nothings 

that leaves no room, no air

to ask whether 

we have been permitted 

such fullness. 

My god, I had forgotten I could be like this. 

Unencumbered by the shape of life around me.

Bearing forward only the singular trueness

of my person

like a stream or a wave

a thing at once peaceful and resolute. 

When we return to our separate lives

I fear I will grow heavy again.

With the memory of some past smallness

or the weight of a new one to come. 

But in this moment 

I can see nothing 

except you

and through your eyes 

my very brightest self. 

Last Day of Man

I can hear her

clapping her hands
with finality, saying
enough is enough!
No more humans
just plants now on
and soon, the earth
will grow green again.

Amma's rasam

Amma’s rasam
clear as a forest pool
fringed with green
is proof that
all poems
don’t need words

HOMECOMING

Homecoming
Breathing dreams
Gulmohar red skies
An aging mother's face
Segno

goodbyes

Watching young people

wave goodbye 

at the end of a night out

I think of the ties that hold them 

together in this moment. 

Proximity and daily life

and the smallness of difference.  

And the longer ties 

the less radiant ties  

they must build

for this beautiful, easy friendship

to last. 

They are not thinking

of these things.

They are standing tall

in the certainty of youth

faces shining

arms aloft 

in a greeting

that could just as easily 

be hello. 

Elections

 Is there any electioneering?

asks a cousin

we are trying to cool off 

this sticky hot sumner

with some beer 

and inevitably

talk of impending 

voting day sits with us

nodding, smirking 

making faces, disdaining

our puny analysis,

it knows better

holds everything to ransom

our hopes, fears and discomforts

it knows how the day will unfold

who will come to the polling booth

dressed for a picnic to vote, 

who won't bother to haul themselves to a booth

frustrations of those who may not find their names on the list 

who will press NOTA 

brand new voters like my child

who knows what fascism means

we continue to chat animatedly 

as if this smirking creature didn't exist.

No end in sight

What cleans, must itself be cleaned

the water filter, the washing machine

the dishwasher. I had no clue

but for YouTube where someone

shows you how each task should be done

I cleaned the filter on the vacuum, 

the year's ennui sucked up from the floor

and stratified. Cleaning is such a bore

No one likes to do it, which is the issue

the machines address. But until a cleaner 

For the cleaner, in infinite regress, is conceived

it's all down to me, and then I have a shower

which must then be cleaned. It's never over

14. I Blinked

I blinked and all dissolved before my eyes.

What life was this I could have sworn was mine?

So alien its shape, and yet so fine

A dream no sleep of mine could so devise.

I dreamed of “Healers” … “waxen doll” … “the guise” …

The words I heard were fading, line by line.

Was this some vision sent from beings divine?

Am I where someone’s dream goes when it dies?

“I thought that it might jolt you in this way,”

The Fish revealed from deep within my gut,

“A memory extracted from a time

“That you could never know. From what you say,

“It sounds as if it brought you solace.” But

What happened after that? What was the crime?

13. Death

Death alone remains beyond the reach of even the Healer’s sacred art.

The Healer eases birth and by the deathbed, plays a similar part:

To ease the passing, dull pain, record the dying words is all

The Healer does. Halting death is impossible; reversing it, beyond the pall.

I learnt this the night my father died. My mother’s stony eyes

Frightened me. On the bed, a waxen doll had taken the guise

Of Father. Hands that looked like his, feet and ears and nose.

His fingers, his wrinkles, his wrists, his collarbones, his shoulders, his toes,

But eyes and mouth, to us who loved him, weren’t the same.

Some stranger seemed to have passed away. That night, no Healers came.

Who heals the Healer when there’s no one left? While to grieve

And to mourn, there was the town, in here: just two. “Bereave

“Me not,” My mother mumbled, I remember, just before my father’s end.

We watched, unmoving. His fading eyes hidden, his chin began to bend

And sag. He had no words to write and seal and burn

When next we saw the moon that ferried him away guiltlessly return

Without him. And though I saw then, in my mother’s eye, loom

The shape of things to come, I didn’t recognize therein my doom.