Robin Gupta

Oct 31, 2019

The Golden Glass

And now, the last glimmer in the golden glass,

I raise as evening comes, evening after evening.

In euphoric dreams I sit in a three legged chair

Till dawn, or a little before the blue birds start to sing

And silently climb into a silent bed crowned by pillows

meant for couples with still some vigour in their arms

hips and legs;

But i am alone and feel the stretched bed sheets

Made plain for a bachelor's

enterprising night across

the stands, vertically at first, and then in horizontal posture.

The old housekeeper balancing her

hunch against the wall

peers through my open door, placing

a heap of visiting cards

along my bedside lamp: ‘She called’

and ‘She called to inquire

if you are lonesome tonight‘

‘listen crone, listen clearly to me:’

Take your rent and let me embrace

the dawn’ — ‘The first pink rays have

arrived on a chariot of clouds — Can’t you see’?

‘Take your rent, double it, if you

will — let me embrace this first

ambrosia of deep slumber’.

‘I care not for boys; nor for females

writhing on your silken coverlets;

This whole matter is sub judice in

my mind, as yet.

It is perplexing: a directionless

dick shielding grapes of wrath or a

messy pudenda

on these covers with dancing

peacocks in the rain.

‘Did you know that the great beauty

of life; the greatest reassurance

of living

is the finality — for all these fragile

gestures will become a howling void.

So hold my hand you seasoned crone;

you are near the victory goal.

Shahjahanabad

In the evening I raise my cup
at the crowded street corner
where the muezzin calls and where
an associate of the early years
has passed into the longest night;
he will be disposed of
outside the city’s limits.
And now, I fear to walk that distance.

For Master Harrow

To be the English way, he travelled
to the river Thames
rolling with buttercups on wide meadows
in May.
I am told he died at a cocktail

just yesterday;
It could have been a disobedient liver

or suicide.
It must be true:
he hasn’t returned home
though the house received its finishing
touches some time ago.
I think he choked on circumstance.

Kanha

Leaving us at right angles
to the forest,
the sun makes over charge
to a yellow moon.

Ajmer Sharif

The last moon
touched
the sleeping lake
and with a lingering
look,
climbed another hill.

Vaanaprastha

As we have reached a forest
of mockingbirds, now
shall we go instead
to a peacock farm
to review the sunset of our lives?

In Lodhi’s Garden

You asked me to consider
the birds returning
to their bamboo grove
at sunset.
I thought all night
of taking you home to cover you
with a thin white sheet
but for your eyes,
and ask you to go nowhere
else alone.

Tree of Life

(In reply to a question, long after it was asked)

Faltering,
I scaled a forest of thought,
And under the dome
Of a starlit sky,
Stopped for breath beneath the tree of life,
Atop a snow mountain.

And dwelling over a landscape
Far, far below
Of ribbon-like rivers of silver
Criss-crossing a satin night,
I saw a house I once knew
Aglow with lamps of joy,
Its doors open for me
Like the open arms of a lover.

To answer your question: Yes,
I have seen happiness
In day dreams, from a distance.

Delhi Diary

Does it matter

where I come from
or where you belong
as we pass along
from one moment
to the next?
Come, be with me
there are enough
hands to build
walls, enough
hearts intent on arson,
let us be equals
tonight let us love.

And What Remains

And what remains in the end?
It is the beauty of space __
Freed from strife and sorrow;
From the anguish and bewilderment
Of evolution;
From the veil of miscalculation;
From the checks and balances
Of judgement and merging
With the cleansing breeze
Of the limitless desert.
And the soul is filled with understanding;
With the equipoise of silence.

Government House, Kashmir, 1974

When you are ready
for me
my dear
I shall be gone.
The first chill

has come
to the trees

and in the
waterways,
the dead leaves flow
to the start
of another spring.

Jackie

Hurrying to the old house at gathering pace

after a lifetime of working in alien lands,

I paused at the corner of my street,

to see if I would be seen.

There were taller houses now

with many more windows,

and a few gnarled peepul trees,

of times gone by

that somehow, still remained.

My parents had passed away long ago

handing me a ring of rusted keys;

also, the half-preserved detritus

of some old associations.

It was a sunless afternoon at September’s end

with neither wind nor any breeze,

and as I stood with uncertain step,

not knowing what I should do next,

my feet took me to a gate

half open, painted in cheerful colours

and a pretty housewife of the newer kind

said to me, ‘Go away, Mister old man!

We don’t know who are you.

Now sqooze me, ok?’

So I gave up on neighbourly love

and turned the key into a dusty hall

to find the leopard skin still hanging

on the wall with its frozen eyes

and muddy head without thought

or recollection of any kind.

An old Carrara marble lamp

held by cherubim which shed no light

just smiled disbelievingly.

And mother’s wedding photograph

in brocaded garb stared blankly

with a jaded Tutankhamen look.

Retracing my steps to sunlight again, I saw

a stray came up to me, wagging his tail

and suddenly, I wasn’t alone.

I named him Jackie, my friend in the city

That had become a stranger to me.

We walked up and down the street

Together, many miles over

the same street, again and again.

I settled down with my companion

and the house came alive.

But the season of contentment ended

with a sharp complaint.

The pretty housewife did not like it at all

that old men and stray dogs

should lay claim to her street, crowding out

cars and stilettos and pleasing men.

And then the municipality men came

with chains and nets and leather thongs,

looking for a dangerous, rabid stray.

He called for me and I rushed out, stumbling

and swaying into the street

as the van sped away, drowning

my protestations, my commands

my lost authority, my cry

that Jackie was my friend in an angry world,

that everyone deserved a friend.

The street was silent, as the world was

unconcerned as Icarus fell.

And I sat on the doorstep of my empty house.

What would happen to Jackie now?

What would happen to me next?

Jamun Tree

From behind the lattice sheltering my wide balustrade,

on a night of darkened monsoon skies,

I watched a wretched rag picker stealthily

collect fallen fruit, picking it up quickly

from underneath the old Jamun tree at my gate.

It could have been a woman, or a man draped loosely

in shapeless sack cloth; twisted and half-gnarled

like a broken tree or one struck by lightning , or sorrow —

a rude , rare sight to behold in a city

of mammon , renowned as the city beautiful.

The committed rag picker separated with dexterity

the rotten jamuns from the ones just ripening.

So I descended into the dimly-lit courtyard —

‘Take them all!’ I told the rag picker,

‘From the laden branches and the ground beneath. All.’

And bowing low, trembling, begging for forgiveness

before my astonished eyes, the rag picker threw aside

her bag —or was it his? — and fled into the shadows.

And I ran after her with meaningless words — promises, hope —

and an armful of succulent jamun fruit.

I should really have stopped, for now I was chasing:

‘Take them all. Suno! Ruko!’

She gave me one last terror-tricken look.

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The Golden Glass and other poems