Bharatpur

In winter, the lake is alive
brimming with life giving water,
dancing to the touch of every wingtip,
resounding to the calls of the flock.
She is shelter, joy, rebirth.

But summer comes and the flock leaves.
She is left alone to struggle
against a hundred demands on her existence.
She shrinks, withdraws into herself
diminishing, stagnant, forgotten.

Does she feel like crying out to the flock to stay?
“Do not go. You are life for me.
Without you I am scared.
Stay with me, help me in my struggles.”
But it does not matter what she feels.

It is not in her nature to stop them,
as it is not in the flock’s nature to stay.
The parting a necessary part of the story.
Dying necessary for rebirth. All this she knows.
And still she dreads the summer.

Every morning Usha goes about waking this world.
Quietly she walks about, her mood turning the world grey,
making it churn with restlessness.
You see, Arun is so far away still!

She becomes happier as the moments pass.
“He will have woken up now,” she thinks.
“He is stepping out into the courtyard.”
She sees him get into the chariot; gather the reins in his hands.
“He is coming” she gasps, and her blush suffuses the world.

She darts over the earth confusedly, happily.
All of life echoes her heartbeat, “Arun! Arun!”
And he comes! A fleeting glance and then he passes by her
performing his duty as the charioteer of the Sun.

Usha loves Arun. Totally, unabashedly.
He occupies her being, colours her life
If he were not to appear, the world would be darkened
with her despair, plunged into chaos by her confusion.

And Arun? He loves her. Totally, undoubtedly.
If Usha were not to greet her lover one morning
He would feel a pang of regret, miss seeing her stand there.
But those calm and sure hands would not falter at the reins,
And on and on across the skies the horses would thunder.

What I saw:

Had been out shopping for groceries with my mother. In the old part of Pune. I saw, I saw:

1. At a little streetside restaurant, a woman treating herself to lunch. This is remarkable in itself, but know also that this was an old, old rural woman. She had collected her pension (or her husband’s more likely) from the bank and had come here. I wondered if this was a little break from the family/farm/home routine, or a monthly ritual. Was it a treat, or simply a safe place where she could count out and keep away her money? I hope it is the former. I am captivated, encouraged by this woman turning a necessary trip into town into a little vacation for the self.

2. A friend had once asked me if singing while working is a very Indian thing. I remembered that today when I saw a seller of copper jewellery cleaning his wares. He was rinsing each little bunch of bracelets in lemon juice, and had set up a beat. So before one saw him, one heard the cheerful chamcham-CHAM-chamcham-CHAM he had set up.

3. The anti-encroachment police came by when I was in the market. By the time I had figured out what had happened, the stalls had magically folded in onto themselves and disappeared. All those neatly laid out goods, the tables with their little plastic roofs. Each of those stalls has such a permanent air about it that I had never realised that they are illegal, much less so temporary.

magicians all

We are all conjurors, hypnotists, masters of illusion.
Watch as a kiss is transformed into
A lifetime together.
Whole worlds are ours for the imagining.
Fill them with warmth and softness and strength
Add the dazzle of conversation and debate and study
Let us have laughter and play for some sparkle
Who needs an audience when we can mesmerise ourselves?

google and poignancy

Who says urban middle class life lacks drama?
I switch on the laptop and open the browser.
Watch the little icon revolve in tune to
a sustained drumroll.

"The server is taking it's time", I am told.
"Do you wish to continue?" "Listen sweetheart,
You have NO idea of what waiting means."
Yes, I continue.

I think I see a loved one, and sit up straight.
Slump again when I see it is the letter of a
nice gentleman wanting to give me money.
'Mark as spam, please."

Ah well, I will re-read mails sent earlier.
But now the name I am looking for is not
among my Quick Contacts. More resolute than
I can ever be,

Gmail has shunted out my errant lover.

to the Delectable Bastard

this is not what i want
am more lonely now
i need help here.
are you listening at all?

when we meet

I want to sit here beside you, my head resting on your shoulder, my palm on your chest.

I want a hundred quick, dry, hot kisses on my forehead, my cheeks, my arms.

I want to just quietly look at you, and do nothing at all.

I want to hold your face in my hands and kiss you gently, deeply, forever.

I want us to have urgent sex in a breathless tangle of arms and legs and torsos.

I want to make love to you as though we had all eternity together.

I want you to make love to me as though you were thirsting, too.

I want to open my eyes in the morning and see you smiling in your sleep

I want to hold you so close I cannot tell the difference between your heartbeat and mine.

I want to hold you like a child holds a slice of watermelon, bite into you and eat you.

I want to touch you as if you were a seedling unfolding itself into the sun.

bottomline..

The absolute least I owe myself is to be wretched with flair. I should be miserably wet and cold in a flooded jungle, lost and tormented in a mountain, or in the depths of despair over implementing participatory watershed management. If nothing else, I should take to poetry.
This waiting for a letter is a commonplace way of being miserable. not worthy of me.

Asking for more

I am not asking for mercy, I tell myself. I am asking for more.

Maybe I lie. I would like a little mercy every now and then.

Am tired of the waiting and the concocting of excuses.

Maybe I lie.

I choose to wait, or so I choose to tell myself

I would like a little mercy every now and then.


(asking for mercy- Sarah Manguso, here )

words

waiting. tired. logic. expect. refuse.
memories. want. need. yearn. hunger. satiety.
smile. wink. laugh.
tears.

On anatomy

I never thought bones could be this fascinating
and then I met your body; began to study it.
I do believe that I could fall in love
with your bones.
You know my fondness for your hands-
how I can spend hours looking
at the sweet domes of your knuckles,
caressing each metacarpal, kissing your palm-
but you were not aware of my infatuation
with your scapulae. Or of how we flirted behind
your back-
they nestling in my palms the way I would
snuggle up to you at night.

evening

She walks alone, hurrying between the pools of yellow light.

Soon she sees her house; notices the lights in the window.

Quickening her pace, she reaches the door, but then pauses

And tries to insert a key with hands that do not obey.

No need for that. The door is flung open and he stands there.

“Here you are! I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.

I couldn’t wait to see you. Here, let me have your coat.”

Words whirl around her as she stands disbelieving, confused.

He looks at her and stops. She rests her head against his chest.

Against her cheek, she can feel the rough texture of his shirt,

The soft pillow of his flesh, the rigid bone underneath.

Deeper still, the rhythm of his breath, the beat of his heart.

She closes her eyes, relaxes. She is safe. She is home.

She is home. She lets herself in and switches on the light.

predators

I see them in the shadows,
Bellies held close to the ground,
They both look ready to pounce.

Gleaming white, clean and cruel,
Like teeth waiting to tear flesh;
I shudder as I pass by.

After a girl is beaten,
The police cruisers only
Serve to protect each other.

(the only poem which is on both my blogs.. watershed of sorts)