summer fruit

ate a persimmon today and thought of you
you fed me my first persimmon a year ago
it is sweet to the tongue - like the love child of a mango and a cantaloupe and it comes out every summer. a tropical creature
the seeds are like kidney beans and there are four in each fruit. three if you're lucky
can a sweet fruit ever go bad in your presence?

selfhood

Waiting for the lights to change

hard weight of groceries on my fingers

the joy of my full, certain selfhood

is immeasureable.

The night is half gone.

Homeward bound with my small necessities

I am awash with the knowledge 

that there is no greater act of grace 

I can offer myself.

Chop Suey

Chopsticks dancing a dandiya,

Flavour explodes on my taste buds.

Noodles twirling and twisting,

like complex equations,

Dissolving finally,

Taste their only answer.

 

I am five again,

celebrating a lollipop moment!

 

A mushroom slips,

like a piano note.

The symphony of taste

waits for the drumbeats

of colliding sticks,

to find their rhythm in love.

 

The sauce sits patiently

holding everything together,

lending soft flavour,

like the presence of grandparents.

Delight hides in the crunch

of crisp noodles sprinkled

like the wit of a friend

who punches without hurting.

 

I pluck time from a platter.

We never know

how long we have left,

at the dinner table.

- Harvinder Kaur

CHOPSTICK NIRVANA

 

An ocean rolls on your tongue.

Its buttery smoothness surprises

you before the umami of salt

comes on and a mini tsunami

of horseradish punch lashes

the roof of your mouth and takes

your head on a spin around the universe.

You'd waited for this moment.

Sushi initiation with your

current beau, soon-to-be husband

at a South Delhi mall is heady

in more ways than one.

Years later, at your favourite

Japanese restaurant, you pick up

chopsticks from the table with the 

faith and tentativeness of the devout. 

This is a return to childhood. 

Training your fingers motor skills they 

never knew. The sticks wobble between 

the webbing of your thumb and index finger. 

Slowly they enclasp a nori roll. 

You dip it into the soy-wasabi mix 

and take a bite. The pungency shoots 

up to the top of your head. You smile 

at this full-circle attainment of nirvana

#5 Daily wage chores

fest at the feet

of a Copperpod tree

chiaruscuro 

she sweeps

fallen flowers

to reveal cracked tiles

he dangles

on a harness

painting tangerine 

"Is the sky always blue?"

Whoever told a child
the sky has to be coloured
blue has never dissolved
their worries and sorrows
looking deeply at the
evening sky. Leaves can be
crimson, love, and brinjals
yellow. Colour your way
to your truths, my dear
simply colour away the
lines, not just the spaces
between or around them.

 

untitled

How do I say, 'I'm tired' in a way that becomes a poem?

Make the ache I feel heal someone else

in some far away place or some other time 

when I'm long gone

How does one flame become a torch

passed on?

Some poems weren't even written down

but kept alive in mind after mind

for a thousand years 

the poets known 

only by their best lines

like that poet of the red earth and pouring rain

I need a line for a poem of the body in pain

True Story II

 

Green is ready to yield. She's
Not above it, as might initially
Appear. Red's all blue moon now.
She can see her wield the
Seductions of gossamer and
Sheer. Green's just not sure how
A city can survive on hope.
She doesn't traffic in pole dances
Hit or miss mischances. It's
A slippery slope, she'd once said,
To the disappearing glow that
Had once been Red. Amber,
She sighs, will owe her. Green
Will never be Aurora.

Self Portrait

 

I see light. On the wing of

Each curl. On cheekbone and

Ear and the curve of the wrist.

The luminous eye taking me in.

So bright. Portrait of the artist

As a young girl.

I labour under no illusion. This

Person shining apart -

My memory offers me no such

Profusion. There is no talent, no

Art, that will create of my daughter

A self-portrait.

But that frank gaze, the open look,

Takes in a looking-at-her me.

And I ask myself, as mothers so

Often do: what does she think?

What does she see? Does she

Appraise her future self, a

Portrait of jawlines and hair.

Middle age in a painter’s chair?

We are not mirrors, despite the

Clever feint. Seeing ourselves

In each other, discovering our

Selves in paint.

*My daughter and I are painting each other in 'self-portrait mode'.

Sheltered in the hollow of a palm 

a blossom may live a few moments longer. 

But the thing to know about this season

is that it is meant for the passing. 

The wind comes and the trees exhale

all in a gentle white sigh. 

A thousand petals in the air. 

As many in the water below. 

THE JOURNEY OF GREEN

Like all beginnings,

a seedling is a test

of faith. Out of dirt

a flyspeck of a shoot

cranes its neck, two

fragile cotyledons open

their green eyes

to the world. Their first 

taste of trusting air. 

 

From the window of a

long-distance train

packed with stale

human breaths, bulging

suitcases and porters

shoving food carts,

a stretch of endless green

enters the body.

A field of emerald paddy

floods through the arteries.

Each act of renewal

is after all a lesson

in forgetting. The train

leaves the same platform

many times before returning

to it. The flooded heart

pauses photosynthesis in

the dark so it can resume

its green journey in the sun.

Growth curve

Dress up just for yourself – because why not

Care less about haters, be surrounded by love
Glow because your skin is now only yours
Carry your broken pieces in a pretty pouch
Laugh when you hear what they said behind your back
Talk to trees and flowers and stars and the open sky
Let your whole body shake when you dance
Let the stretch marks and scars show
Love inside out and then some more
Cook simpler and eat with more gratitude
Lavish attention on the hurt inside
Kiss more often, more gently that inner child
Let go and then let go and then let go.

Just the Means, Not the End

I see everyone around me

Working day and night,

Cooking and cleaning or catching up

On sleep missed the last five nights.

I see myself falling into this trap

This masochistic need to constantly work,

To feel guilty if I’m not “productive”

When I’m only enjoying the comforts I’ve earned.

In school, it was easy—

Homework was only a hurdle

To cross before play.

It was easy in college too—

When your friends and new experiences

Were as important as your essay.

But somewhere along the adulting

We’ve lost the clarity we had as kids;

We’ve forgotten the freedom that

Living just for ourselves gives.

I heard someone say once

That they found theatre not a distraction but an escape

Because “a distraction is momentary.

An escape helps you heal.”

But art and dance and sports and romance,

A picnic with your family, or a drink with friends,

When time slows, gone are your woes,

Your heart is full as it can be—

Isn’t this where happiness blooms?

Isn’t this what life is about?

Why must this be only an escape

From the monotone we’ve accepted as fate?

Why must we forgo this delight

For endless chores and strife?

Why must responsibility constrain and pressure

Rather than be a stepping stone to pleasure?

So I’ve decided, to hell with this

Mad impulse to “be productive”!

I’ll read fifty books this year

And watch all the shows on my list

I’ll get to that novel I’ve put on hold

And write poetry even if it’s shit

I’ll dance as much as I can 

Even if I don’t get paid for it

I’ll go rock climbing with my friends

And on that girls trip

I’ll make new memories, not

Grasp nostalgically at old wisps.

When I need to do the dishes,

I’ll split with my mum and chat as we clean

When I need to run errands,

I’ll do it with a friend, with me or on my screen

When I need to cook dinner,

I’ll play a little music and dance through the meal

And when I need to do the laundry,

I’ll do it with myself, spend some time with me.

I’ll work enough to do this comfortably

Because I do love my work

But I won’t let it stop me

From living life for all it’s worth.

For art, beauty and romance

Are not an escape but life itself

And I won’t let this adulting frenzy

Get me stuck on the means, never to reach the end.

4

everything comes together slowly / a single, golden strand of love / the night belongs to longing / the mornings belong to hope / an app asks me how I am feeling, why don't you? / the food tastes of the soil. always / I don't make notes inside margins of books anymore / while building cities why have we put the rivers aside? / ostentation is the oxygen of our lives / shifa means healing / our dreams are a marathon not a sprint / in the lake nearby, two boatmen drop a net / listen to your heart before you have to listen to your body / how old are your parents now? Nine? / pistachios are the royalty of the dry fruits / I dream of the forest / the active voice is dead / my favourite meal is always with him at a low-key restaurant / what does the soil taste of now? / there are roads that lead to the past / hold the thought and put it down 

3

I learn the meaning of Urdu words from a 

Punjabi woman with long, dark hair. Zarf, 

she says, means the capacity to forgive, to 

endure. What is this life if all we need to do 

is survive it? What is the weight of a prayer, 

a wish? I hope it is light enough to ascend to 

heaven, even if it comes from the heaviest 

of hearts. Maraasim — the plural of rasm — 

the rituals of keeping a relationship. Visiting 

a sick person is an act of charity, they say. 

How long will the malaise of our existence 

bring no visitors to our doorsteps? The 

sympathy of our days adds up. We have no 

place to keep it. Leaving it under trees will 

haunt them. How easily we have forgotten 

the rasm of give and take. We have become 

Gaafil, like she says, beparwah, negligent. 

In such deep slumber (while being awake) 

that we are unaware the water is overflowing, 

the hot air is skirting in front of the door, 

the leaves are drying steadily. Maybe it 

was a custom to forgive our life. Maybe 

it is not a custom anymore.

Beauty

Beauty in nature is function, the oak

the most efficient way of making acorns

The bird's song a mating call, the artichoke

that purple for the butterflies and thorned

To protect its tender heart from me

and yet I can't help but see and be beguiled

by the fractal branching of the tree

in reaching for the light. Out in the wild

beauty is just a word the bee doesn't know 

Or need to pierce the secret of the rose

6. A Menu

A menu of the many ways I know:

The platform, in an instant, is the first,

But for the passengers, the very worst

Beginning to the day, so that's a no. 

The second, so the redness wouldn't show,

My wrists inside the toilet bowl, immersed,

Inside the bathroom at the mall, a cursed

Floor isn't what I'd want to leave and so—

"Hold on!" The fish said in alarm, "I feed

"On dreams like this much slower than I think

"You'd like me to. It's not that it's too much,

"Just too much all at once. So, please, I need

"A moment. Also, maybe take a drink

"Of water." Words as meaningful as touch. 

Sun falls on the girl reading by the water

and on the head of the boy

asleep on her lap. 

Some joys are for you to hold.

Some for you to witness.

Tough

Deciphering the script

in the iris of your eyes,

A little like eating marbles

with a fork.

Illusive and elusive- nights in my city

 The street feels like anxiety; like that clingy friend in college shadowing you that you don't have the gumption to shake off.

Serial lights toggle to project

Maramma and  Ganesha in green red and blue on to the streaming traffic

A Zomato driver has a screen of Google maps and within that another screen of an IPL match. 

It may not be his last delivery 

Honks announce a green light

Night seems unattainable

Part of a past that no longer exists

Nights when everything cast ominious shadows, rustling leaves held a mystery. 

Or a faraway bark made you hurry home

Happy you weren't that stray with a litter in the ditch

Nights seem part of once upon a time  moonlit story

AN ARCHIVE OF LEFT-BEHINDS

What is left behind when you move on?
A night sky's maternal embrace.
A newborn's guileless grin.
The validation of girlfriends' giggles.
The bigheartedness of a playground.
The forbearing indulgence of neighbours with TV sets.
The affordability of delights from a neighbourhood market.
The comfort of a collective of mothers knitting winter wear.

Moving on is  seldom about arriving.
It's about rummaging through a dusty archive of left-behinds.

Adenanthera pavonina

not a romantic name

for seeds that look

like love came home

that, legend has it

bring luck

blessings

healing

medicine

so much joy

when found.

I'd call them

love seeds

or joy seeds

these Red Lucky Seeds

that look like

love came home.

Today, without thinking, I went

to the park where we first met.

I had timed it wrong that day:

it was winter, late, only

a few minutes of light left.

It's early morning now,

A full day ahead.

Bad metaphors offer respite

In the slow wakening of bitterness.

Kalu and Angel OR Beware of Dog Part 2

Apparently another meeting

with Angel and Kalu was meant to be.
Angel, the announcer of rank outsiders
as they try to enter the premises
either knows my smell or
has become softer or
is too troubled by the heat
to care as much.
There’s a series of dutiful
yet forceful barks
only in the night and
only till the gate has been crossed
after which there is zero interest
in me while Kalu opens an eye
and simply goes back to sleep.
Kalu is clearly a morning dog
walks with me to gate and door
quietly passing on news
of a peaceful night.
Having been a dog-fearing person
I’m startled to note the joy rising
within when I am barked into the house
and gently walked out of it.


This poem could be a sequel to this one:
https://dailyriyaaz.blogspot.com/2023/04/beware-of-dog.html 

True Story

I saw the stop sign become the moon

And roll mountain-down. No more red,

She said, I can't be the cause of you

Not moving on. Be the green guy, go

Where you like but keep in mind

The red-ringed sign, and don't

Turn around.

Myself, I'm jumping ship, moving

My ass, swinging my hip. Could be,

As you say, a slippery slope,

But the night is young, and

There's always amber, the Colour of hope.

cherry blossoms, seoul

For the boy beside me 

to pick a perfect cherry blossom 

from the ground 

a bird has to alight

in the tree above

with just enough force

to knock it loose

but not break it.

spring has to come early

and the sun has to be out

so that the streets can fill with people

and the air with promise.

I have to look at a cloudless sky

and admit 

that there is so much and yet 

no more 

than can be held in 

this painfully lovely day

delicate and 

quivering with light. 

A DELICIOUS RECOMPENSE

Your baptism began at three on grandfather's lap. 
A spoonful of the hot brew and you were 
a convert for life. Long ago, in another world, 
elliptical leaves flushed along an eastern river 
and an elixir mythical, bitter yet sweet, was born. 
Swimming across oceans, sweeping over mountains, 
a russet liquid quenched thirst like a saviour's 
holy water does a parched soul. 

On a day burning with heat, a benevolent professor
serenaded you with sufi songs before serving you 
the elixir in a steel cup cased inside a deep saucer. 
Your memory imprinted Amir Khusro's words in his booming 
voice. Your throat still holds the sukoon, the contentment 
the liquid, browned with milk blessed it with. 

Te, cha, chai, tea. The supreme medicine that mends broken
relationships and demands obedient workers to heap delicate
leaves on their backs. To help fill jars in glossy showcases. 
A potion that bridges evanescent memories as it did countries
and continents centuries ago. Each sip, a delicious recompense.
For surviving surly politicians in sultry countries. 

5. Is this what normal people feel?

Is this what normal people feel? Is this

What I’ve been missing out on? Why was I

Left unaware that not to wish to die

Was something normal people felt? Abyss—

The word I’d found for where my restlessness

Was leading me—did they not find the sky

Its memory? Is that the reason why

Outside, the normal people didn’t miss—

“The ceiling! Sorry,” Fish was blushing red

(I’d named it Fish in haste), “I didn’t mean

“To pry, it’s just the feelings come with thoughts.

“So many words! And of them, ‘hopeless’, ‘dead’,

And ‘what’s’, ‘the’, ‘point’, ‘I’, ‘wish’ seem to have been

Abundant. So, is this how wellness rots?”

desire will never let us down

this is where we live now. meaning is only born from schism.
desperation is the same as romance i think. disillusionment is only natural.

we must remind ourselves that our desire is not the lack of. it is not a negative space.
it makes the world go round. and it makes the world stop in its tracks. and rotate relentlessly. and pause
and move again on its tilted axis.
science is turning onto itself.
a heatwave is fast approaching
i want you in the mornings. and afternoons. and when i walk back from the station. there is no end to the wanting.

the people go to work and smoke their cigarettes and eat paan and get on their buses and hold their flighty children close to their bodies and the work day ends in the evening and they go back home to their husbands and wives.
the earth moves once more while they all sleep and i still want you. routine is good for the heart.

 

Scarred

 Come. Dare.

Kiss a scar.

Wear blood lipstick.

Smear a slide with words.

Watch

cells divide, rearrange…

an amoebic dance of metaphors.

The histopathology of a poem.

Waits

for the microscopic gaze

of your eyes.

Remove the tubes.

Wheel me into your heart.

Take me home.

Heat Wave

Overpowers
Seals my lids
Melts cognition
Soon am swimming
In cool water
A gold fish
Dreaming of air 
Of a gentle breeze
Flowing through trees.

What can't be said

The form a thought takes, so that I know

I thought it, noun and verb in order, bound

together by a magnetic force so

strong that once fused can't be undone, sound

and meaning, this my language, my grammar

the crude tool I use to make the world make

sense. But language becomes a hammer

turning the world to nails. Words are opaque.

Those moments when the screen of words gives way

the world pours through, all liquified. Last light

on the lake before the sun goes down, aflame

We dived into the water that was ice

not so long ago, lay skin to skin, speechless

Under the aurora borealis

#3 Pink ball

 a pink ball rolls

around a corner

of a rectangular park

a newly erected fence

in green and gold 

edged with spears and arches

stands inscrutable

you can tell yourself

in a sinister whisper or 

a bouyant shriek, 

'I SEE traffic through a trellis'

with a burst of screeching friction

and heaves of mortar fattened pillars, a metro train passes above.

pink ball stops rolling,

settles itself, somewhat unclaimed.

turn of the corner reveals

an urchin with lopsided buttons 

and his merry belly button running,

brandishing an yellow plastic bat.

walkers gather pace, crunching

on scattered orange leaves

 of an Indian almond tree

 unafraid of solitary pink balls