In the late 1970s, all the prescribed Literature texts for the M.A. at Delhi University were from the West. At 20, I was inclined to write poems that conformed to received standards. Sonnets came easily. I began to read Nissim Ezekiel, Dom Moraes and other Modern Indian English writers, as they are now called. Modern poetry at University had ended with Yeats’ An Irish Airman Forsees His Death. I was addicted to T.S.Eliot — especially his Tradition and The Individual Talent (first pub. 1919). His words on the “Three Voices of Poetry’ and The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock have stayed with me. Yet I did not “dare to disturb the universe” and wrote with innate anxiety, half a century later. I began to compose verse based on my own experiences, intertwined with poignant stories from people I had met during the years of our postings overseas, living in diverse cultures. Memories over the years are distilled, yet certain incidents never fade. After a great deal of retrospection and

introspection, I try to present a poem in context — tradition, experience and within the background or history of that period. Volga, the Telugu feminist writer, says “The advaita of water and fire is the essential quality” of my poetry! Writing poetry is not cathartic for me — I am emotionally drained after each composition.

He motions for me

to step out,

frowning at the sixth chakra

adorning my forehead.

I am wed, so it is red.

The Ancients have decreed

it contains the spirit

of my being, my wisdom.

The lady beside me

admonishes the armed boy

in a language I know not.

He evades my bewildered eyes,

three steps back, we move on.

My husband later that night

is furious I took a ride

in a friend’s car, unmarked

but for my dot.

Last week I read in the local papers

women with dots

were hustled to the back of buses.

Reminiscent of the 1980s

across the oceans,

in the land of milk and honey

and dreams —

the dot-busters

assaulted women they knew not.

I am told I may not travel by bus or taxi

in certain foreign lands.

I walk gingerly

two steps behind him,

my saree pallu over my head

in due deference, 

held tightly in place.

Breathless, the moment

suspended in disbelief,

I am paralyzed with fear as

two guns cross my face,

the door ahead pulled shut.

My long-sleeved blouse

cannot hide my sweaty palms.

I press the sixth chakra

on my forehead —

Nano seconds or millennia pass.

The door swings open.

Guards snap their heels, salute

The Head of State.

He offers profuse apologies.

I cannot fathom the words

for they quell not my beating heart.

My husband stares aghast,

I lower my eyes, 

sink into the soft sofa, inhale,

my life now safe in confined space.

Anger swells 

for always being two steps behind.

The taxi wallah 

exhales smoke rings,

at the distant homes

that dot the nearby hill,

inside a territory

he and his kin were

prohibited from entering

half a century ago.

I smile as I enter his kingdom.

He points to my bindi,

I nod.

I nod.

No.

Uncomfortable 

in his confined space,

unversed in his language

or his interpretation

of my English,

unwilling to engage further,

a stranger in this land

I disembark,

sooner than intended.

The full fare intact,

he nods me away.

Here I am

standing alone

on the balcony,

reminiscing,

listening

to the sounds

the children

once made.

My empty nest

sanitised now.

The Way of the COVID World.

Wait, an orange-rust hoopoe

visits, a parrot or two

add visual charm

to my confined space.