For Avani who lead me back to DR

To push a pal to pick up the pen
Is to help him return to a place again
A place where the shells of our feelings
Were cracked and scrambled over toasts
After a dose 
Of Elliott or Ismat, Donne or Saadat
Drunken nights and shameless tears
A lifetime of comfort from our reckless years

April

The end of Act 1 of the year
Tucked between a disciplined motion,
The 'march'
And a permission to be, 
The 'may'
Begins with the celebration of fools
And ends early like November and June
"Time is a construct" some would say
But to read beauty in the form of these designs 
Is a celebration of the consensual function of meridien lines
An acknowledgement of the fact that it behoves us to know
If it's worry or just the summer that caused the sweat on your brow

A RUBAIYAT FOR RETURNING

A ten-year old December anticipation

turns into suffocating frustration

A black smog has smothered sunshine

Home is now an alien destination. 

I've come to see a face growing old.

For too long, I've ignored time's cold

finiteness. Finally, I submit to its grip 

to return to nativity's primal fold. 

I came to stay, but strayed apace.

To flee the tarry air licking my face.

Finding solace in Buddhist viharas and the

shade of trees, gleaning calm and a bit of grace. 

I return to the face I've come to see. 

The first home that housed me, my first tree. 

The air clears up, I take shelter in my roost,

forgetting time and its limits. At last, free. 

April’s showers

The blossoms of Spring

will now fade and burn in the molten heat

leaving behind the shadows of words.

 

Even as the seasons turn,

how cool the sea breeze that wafts in now

how comforting the bonds made in April.

 

 

 

Thank you all for the warmth and inspiration at DR!

April after a year's gap

It will come around again

the April of cruelty, the April

of loss and memories. 

It will come back in trees 

bursting in flowers, as if it 

never bypassed spring. 

Those of us that return here

will be an older version of 

Aprils past. Flowering out of 

spite, softened in sap, more 

careful now, minding the gap. 

colour theory

I watch a man paint an orange

on the internet.

He builds its shadow

in careful strokes

first green, then blue, then red. 

Colours I did not know 

to look for in a shadow. 

When I was young

and washing paintbrushes

the water always ran

dull brown 

the ugly outcome 

of a meeting of lovely things.

There is a logic in this

I am sure 

a rule that

given time and modesty 

will reveal itself to the willing. 

To see the world 

for what it is made of

you must begin by

looking away.

Oranges (a translation from Jibanananda Das)

Once I leave this body

Shall I never return to this earth?

May I come back again

On a cold winter's night

With the pitiful flesh of an ice-cold orange

At the edge of some friend's deathbed.

First rain of the season: a ghazal

It snuck up on me when I was sleeping, the rain.
It had drowned out the alarm beeping, the rain.

When summer gets right under the skin
it has everything in you leaping, the rain.

When life becomes a little too much to take
it reminds you of all that’s keeping, the rain.

Likened to manna and love but how
it could leave you weeping, the rain.

Charu-Khepi loves laundry sun-dried and warm but this
holds together rhythms of sowing and reaping, the rain. 

Roll up your kurta sleeves

to fight

with the grime

on the underside

of the old iron kadai

coated with hardened

black, oily clumps

of generations of

patriarchy.

Anondo Bhoirobi - a translation

 

(An attempted translation of Shakti Chattopadhyay's Anondo Bhoirobi - original follows)  

Anondo Bhoirobi

Now in that room the picture hangs loose 

at monsoon’s end not how it used to be

the garden held rain-pecked flowers

Anondo Bhoirobi.

 

Now the pastures miss the shepherd boy

the banyan misses crying to his flute 

but still the rain spades at the cloud

carves out lightning grooves

 

Did they not know it is these times of loss

that leap and snatch the rooster’s red tuft

did they not know what a waste of heart

the miser’s left hand

 

Did they not know the city is more iconic

much more than this heart’s abode

did they not know as much as I had known 

from fingernails to shore

 

Now in that room the picture hangs loose 

at monsoon’s end not how it used to be

the garden held rain-pecked flowers

Anondo Bhoirobi.

 

আনন্দ ভৈরবী 
- শক্তি চট্টোপাধ্যায়

 

আজ সেই ঘরে এলায়ে পড়েছে ছবি

এমন ছিলনা আষাঢ় শেষের বেলা

উদ্যানে ছিল বরষা-পীড়িত ফুল

আনন্দ ভৈরবী।

আজ সেই গোঠে আসেনা রাখাল ছেলে

কাঁদেনা মোহনবাঁশিতে বটের মূল

এখনো বরষা কোদালে মেঘের ফাঁকে

বিদ্যুৎ-রেখা মেলে।

 

সে কি জানিতনা এমনি দুঃসময়

লাফ মেরে ধরে মোরগের লাল ঝুঁটি

সে কি জানিতনা হৃদয়ের অপচয়

কৃপণের বামমুঠি।

 

সে কি জানিতনা যত বড় রাজধানী
তত বিখ্যাত নয় এ হৃদয়পুর
সে কি জানিতনা আমি তারে যত জানি
আনখ সমুদ্দুর।

 

আজ সেই ঘরে এলায়ে পড়েছে ছবি
এমন ছিলনা আষাঢ় শেষের বেলা
উদ্যানে ছিল বরষা-পীড়িত ফুল
আনন্দ ভৈরবী।

 ❤

This is one of my most favourite poems of Shakti Chattopadhyay. I was intimidated but also tempted. Critiques, comments, suggestions are most welcome. I hope the English version will also be enjoyable to those who don't read Bengali. 

OLD AND NEW

A new neighbourhood. 

Training the mind to forget old girlfriends. 

A new school; learning how to sit in 

the same classroom with boys. 

New bus numbers. 424, which keeps you 

connected to the old neighbourhood. 

411, 432, 490, 541 and a numberless mini bus

that pull you through the city's arteries 

so you can hear it breathe. 

A new house, unpolished and incomplete

but with a terrace overhead and a wide field behind.

New markets, haphazard and dusty,

sleepy in the daytime, grubby and

noisy in the evening. New neighbours,

all sharing gossip in your tongue.

Old shenanigans on new street, field.

Old lunchtime mischief with new school friends.

Old joy of sharing produce with, 

asking for ice from, new neighbours.

Old sweat and crowd on new bus routes. 

Old luscious chapter of mangoes in new house.

Old comfort of studying constellations 

with grandfather on new terrace. 

Old relief of finding known strength in the sinews of a new life.

For Indhu

I have been counting down
to your birthday
It was the day you got your diagnosis
I was told and I picture you in the hospital
wondering what to say to all the people
sending you life’s best wishes and love.
Again, I think – I should have called!
Again, I think – we should have met more often!
When you did not reply that day
I thought the “viral fever”
was pretty bad and that soon
maybe in a week or two
you would be back in form.
I still cannot make sense of your absence.
Yet, every time I see flowering trees
(the Jacaranda, Copper pod, Sampige
Pongam, Tabebuia – still make our city special
and in my mind’s eye – I read the poems
you’d have written for them when I see them
flaunting their falling flowers)
every time I make a delicious coconut based curry
every time I smell chakka (I know jackfruit was
your muse) – I think of your bright eyes dancing
and that smile, the words tripping out
I think of your sharp sense of humour that saved
many on many a day – and I know you are here
even if you are not there. 

loss

Before the season 

of resilience begins 

the days of mourning

must end.

And while you know 

that this is promised

to you 

as it is to every other

it is so very hard

to believe.

 

The Return of Ben Adhem [A sequel to Leigh Hunt's Poem Abou Ben Adhem (1834)]

Abou Ben Adhem got sick of the heavenly feels
So he returned to Earth and found a teenager scrolling reels
As he began writing, after finding a place to sit 
The teenager noticed him, but didn't seem to give a shit
Holding up his cheer even if a little shook
"Are you not curious about my book?"

Abou said
The teen raised its head

"Pretty cool what's it made of?"

Abou cleared his throat with an artificial cough
"Don't you want to know what I'm writing?"
"Sure" said the teen, Abou didn't need more inviting

"It's the names of those who love the Lord" in a gentle tone
The teen gave a nod and returned to his phone
"Alrighty then,

Shall I write you as one who loves your fellowmen?"

"The ones on instagram yes, the ones on LinkedIn not so much.
And James from school but we're not in touch..."
Abou's peace had left him and he looked in pain
Feeling a little guilty the teen tried to explain

"I'm seeing too much of everyone now and loving them all is a little weird"
The teen could go on but Abou disappeared
The next night Abou returned with an announcement and a smile
"God wants you to run his instagram profile"

Burning Deck (after Casabianca)

I know why he stood on the burning deck

He needed to set it on fire.

Or combust himself from all the ire.

Here's the original poem: https://poetryarchive.org/poem/casabianca/ 

Watering the roots

When I learnt about drip irrigation in school,
I had no idea what it looked like,
no pictures or illustrations
in the chapter on agriculture,
only the line-drawing of a man with a dhoti
carrying hay on his head,
his mustache large and black, his torso unclothed.
 
Years later, I take the kids to a visit an organic farm
run by the local school,
and ask the students to stand in line and behave well,
to absorb all they see - like a sponge, water.
They do. Between whispers and giggles.
Then they help make a drip-irrigation pipe
with their adept and nimble fingers,
unlike my knotty and arthritic ones.
The water drips from the pipe
slowly, slowly,
drop by drop, straight to the roots
through some magic network of tubes and valves.
 
But how strange that I am reminded
of the grief, happiness, wonder, care,
and all else welling up in me
to irrigate drop by drop by drop,
the kernel of who I am,
and how much I love,
how on grey days,
or on bright ones,
the faucet mustn’t stop
dripping.

For Charu, with Bhaswati

If glass jars could hold words, mine
Would meet the sheer walls of 
Reflection and shine, gold in the day
Silver all night. Your plants would
Know how to make my words 
Grow from single notes into lines
Of music like poets singing the morning
So practiced that kettles whistle
And birds rise; a sunrise of eyes
Meeting each letter in recognition,
And our mothers materialise out of
Memory and desire. (See how old
Poets conspire to to speak in our
Tongues!) if glass jars could hold 
My words I would sit happily among
The paraphernalia of your days
Quickening to life or melting to stone
Never alone.

THE OCTAVE RETURNS

Saptak, the octave’s seven 

notes, reconfigure my mornings. 

After a night's quiescence, 

my voice rasps like sandpaper 

grazing brick. The notes, like 

hungry birds, want out.  

The harmonium, a treasure 

chest, turns the sandpaper
into a sky free of clouds. 

My voice climbs the saptak's 

seven steps, riding on 

the reeds of the harmonium my 

mother lovingly secured for

me by saving two months

of her salary. The birds sing 

as they take flight. My mother

enters the kitchen to make

tea. Water sings in the kettle.

Her voice joins mine. In her 

youth, she had wanted to pursue 

music. Couldn't. My daily riyaaz 

returned her dream, if only 

on a different morning, drifting 

across her offspring’s sky.

The season of poetry

It is almost over now the season. Quick!
Write me a poem I can store in a glass jar
something that will catch the light on the shelf
that the jar sits with two succulents hanging for dear life
yet not willing to let go. I do not know what makes a succulent’s
life tick but not so with a poem. I will water it with my eyes
and let its words touch my lips, every single day.
I will savour its flavours whether the day is dull or bright.
Write me a poem for the keeping, won’t you, dear poet?
The season is almost over now. Quick! 

Nonet

That  window without curtains invites the eye. At night

the glass reveals round table, open book, plate

pink tulips in a vase that match 

the tablecloth. The halo of light

from the lamp shows nothing

more. No one there.

A still life

Not ideas

Things

threshold

In principle 

there is a point 

where one thing 

becomes another. 

This day turns into the next

as does this month

and every other measure

of season and state. 

Fruit ripens

fruit rots.

I cut a mango open 

too early

and put the halves back together

in supplication

in guilt. 

Not for me 

to locate the boundary

between the still here

and the now gone. 

I may pass unknowing

through many a threshold

but I will know 

when I have arrived

on the other side.

Minus One Feels Like Minus Seventeen

It may only be words minus courtesy;

Feels like a bludgeoning assault.

Only quoting someone else;

Feels like megaphoned hate speech.

It might’ve been a while since I hit

Such a wall, since no one tripped me;

That’s how hard I fell. There are winds

That blow without answers, my friend,

That make a cudgel of a stick. It’s hard

To tell if what we need is more walls

To hold up the courage to bend. It

May only be the end of the world;

Feels like everyone’s got it under 

Control. It may only be a missile 

Hurled; feels like they’ve cleaned up

The debris, filled up the hole, packed

Cotton into wounds, stacked sandbags 

Against the sea. Must be the wind

That makes it feel like a collective 

Destiny.

17. Oats

If you've been hospitalized, you know

The deprivation of the senses:

The lack of colour,

The starched white sheets

The only texture, 

The sanitised smells,

But, worst of all,

Taste.

Flavour stands abolished! 

The antithesis to Colonel Sanders,

Abandon all herbs and spices

Ye who enter here!

The system is too delicate,

The limited palate 

A visceral reminder

Of failure. 

Failure of the body.

Failure of the mind.

Failure of care. 

Failure of dignity.

Failure of everything.

Failure of failure.

What's the point? 

What's the point?

In the morning, the nurse brought me

A katori of masala oats 

The dietician had bestowed 

Her benediction

My taste buds experienced 

Grace. 

Today, at breakfast,

They gave me masala oats. 

It made me happy.  

16. Banana Leaf

Ragged margins curl

Enveloping a rice grain

A Vishu sadya. 

15. Desperation

Desperation creeps up on me

Like an electric guitar strumming

In the background of my mind,

Those crisp, symphonic tones

A wind in metal rushes

Announcing the arrival

Of a new Messiah

Holding hands with Moses

As David plays the chord.  

14. My Inner Eye

If you see me writing ghazals, you will know my inner eye. 

My radeef is dipped in flop sweat. Watch it flow, my inner eye. 

The sandstorm in my mind does not leave traces in the morning. 

The grains are white as salt. Nothing grows, my inner eye. 

It should be "grow" not "grows", my inner critic winces. 

Formal rules are shackles; let them go, my inner eye. 

Abandon hope, all who pass through these unholy sher. 

At night, only glow worms glow, my inner eye. 

I hear the tapping of your keyboard, a cricket in the night. 

Where are all the real ones? I don't know, my inner eye.

I lay words like Scrabble tiles upon the lines inside my mind. 

A pause, some hesitation, and then, just so, my inner eye!

Seven sher are enough to make the wind stop in its tracks. 

Sameer, is this all you have to show my inner eye?

13. Rush Job

This poem is a rush job:

Conceived in haste,

In execution,

Hastier still. 

It barely meets the definition

Of poetry. 

What is that anyway?

A moment set to paper?

I have no paper. 

Only digits

That make my screen glow

As if it bleeds in colours

Subtracted from the divine 

C, M and Y. 

The glow illuminates my discomfort.

Reluctantly,

I post. 

12. Rhyme

Taking recourse to rhyme is my

Sweet surrender. White flag waving 

Proudly, for I have no enemies

And music needs no barricades. 

And yet, a sneaky part of me 

Is obstinate,

Recalcitrant, 

Unwilling to toe the line

And instead it breaks the metre 

And refuses to indulge 

In rhyme. 

11. Time Travel

I didn't write this in time

travel with me to parts unknown

pleasures are sometimes best delayed

responses may need time to sprout

wings are meant to fly

away game starting in three, two, one

to the future

tense minds yearn for the first person…

Conversations with an Insomniac (haibun)

If we are born, we must die. That’s the only certainty in life. But that’s what we struggle with the most. Seeing my grandparents’ funerals when I was still learning to adult, I was distraught but refused to cry. Crying was for the weak in the 1980s and 90s, at least in my family. We held our heads high and accepted that all beginnings have ends.
 
But secretly, I had wanted to collapse into my bed and cover myself with a blanket because I didn’t want to accept that soft, warm and loving grandparents disappear. They should be around forever to diffuse love into a difficult-to-understand world.
 
Much later, when my father’s end came, I was devastated but held up for the day because I was the primary caregiver and I had seen it coming. A quiet strength had seeped in but that didn’t help in the days after. I was nearly fifty, and couldn’t be bothered about what my family or society expected of showing grief. I cried and held my daughter who was learning to adult, and was now of the same opinion that grandparents should never die.  
 
between seasons
humid heat seeping
into an autumn dusk
 

Break

 

After relentless

frontline service,

sometimes 

a mother may decide

to put her aching feet

up and enjoy 

the hammock—

the one that always

lay nearby.

But of course,

there was no time.