Grandma’s Passing
Did you not envision, father,
that the staircase landings
would be too cramped
for grandma’s departure,
and you a civil engineer…?
Grandmother,
of the soft sagging breasts,
skin alight with musk, patchouli
and the scent of glycerine soap,
bosom slathered in lotion,
ever receptive
for a boy to weep into,
her embraces tight,
never judgmental.
Grandmother now very quiet,
anointed with sandalwood paste
and crushed marigold.
‘So young’, the neighbours whisper,
‘but he’ll have to perform
the last rites,
after all,
he was her favourite.’
How could you not notice, father,
that the lift was too small
and the building too old
for grandma?
My delicate grandma,
trussed up,
her head inside the bandages
the size of a coconut,
the hospital identification tag
(Patient Number 761,
imprinted in my brain forever,
in letters of fire),
digging into my elbow,
the stretcher made to stand upright
in the miniscule lift.
Grandma looming over me
like an Egyptian mummy
while the hearse attendant
whistled a bawdy song,
his sweat and night breath
mingling with my shock and fury,
surely Grandma deserved
more dignity in death…?
‘He’ll have to light the pyre,
so what if he’s only eleven?
He’s the grandson, after all.’
I circumambulate
the neat rectangle,
only a bit of her ivory skin
is visible,
Grandma now trapped
in her cage of hacked wood.
Thakurma, Thamma,
my pocket-sized Thumbelina,
my reason to live,
my life itself,
are you comfortable in there, Tums?
my whisper is inaudible
even to myself.
Its scratchy in here, buddy,
with all these dried twigs,
her whisper sounds tetchy,
and soon it will be hot, of-so-hot…
The chants rise to a crescendo,
flames slip from my fingers,
white heat suddenly in my face.
Soon, she will bifurcate, I’m sure,
from her flaming body,
the enterprising little soul
that she is…was, sorry,
join the deceased aunts
clink glasses sitting on clouds,
never have to worry about heat or cold
or adult sons who resented
her longevity.
They never told me
it takes so very long
for a human body
to turn into ashes.
I trudge back home
speaking to no one,
an amputee for life.
The landings are so small,
the stairwell so narrow,
didn’t you take these
into consideration
while buying a house, father?
Van Gogh Night
Smells of heat, dust and excitement,
a night breathing gaiety,
the press of people
scattering every which way,
dazzled limbs
fusing into each other,
the very air
a carnival for the senses.
I stand searching for your shape.
Gas balloons
explode inside my head,
my lips are stained
with orange pop.
The inky sky
swoops down on me,
the stars so big
so bright,
their sapphire glory
spill out of my irises.
And yet, I cannot spot you.
Carnivals also end,
the balloons, orange pop,
music and fireworks
are all gone,
the Van Gogh night is now silent.
The hours unfurl stealthily,
an indigo python
of a hundred nightmares,
rubble and long silences
dot the fabric
of approaching dawn.
I continue waiting for you.
Men have been known
to abandon women
in the strangest of places:
hospitals, crematoriums,
cafes and cliff-edges.
I sit on the edge
of a starry starry night,
a stern chronicler
of personal grief.
I shall not allow myself
the indulgence of emotions,
only the luxury of language.
I shall paint the experience
like those masters of yore.
Heartbreak, I discover,
possesses the deep pigment
of violets in spring.
The Night, the Nightingale
Your love…
like the scent of first rain
in a year predicting drought,
like the despair of a mother
holding a stillborn child,
like the cold kiss of frost
of a hard hopeless winter,
like a faint tune at dusk
of a long-forgotten song.
Many hopefuls waft
through the labyrinthine pathways
leading to your
many-chambered heart.
Possessing the rare gift
of self-preservation,
you promise each of us
rainbows, roses and pots of gold.
Dexterous juggler of souls,
like the amorous blue god
you can keep
many balls up in the air,
simultaneously.
I lie with bare limbs
washed in moonlight.
Yearnings crest in sync
with the mating cries
of the night bird.
Stop, don’t do it,
warn the ancestors
whispering across
the chasms of time,
he’s a player, not worth it,
stick to the straight and narrow, girl.
Ancestors are but bits of ether
ineffectual in the face
of unbridled passion,
and morally upright conduct
was never a virtue with me.
Self-destruction coded into
the blueprint of my destiny,
nocturnal moans
of the nightingale
burning my ears,
I take the leap of faith
into quicksand.
Ennui
Ennui, he said,
has no definite shape or colour.
It’s greyish, viscous,
quagmire country,
a treacherous place
to reside in.
You could sink
or you could be saved,
life is nothing, really,
but a game of
Russian roulette.
Learn instead
to inhabit your own skin,
anchor yourself firmly
to the here and now,
teach yourself
to exist in the microcosm,
leave the macrocosm
to manage itself.
Live your moments
in siestas, bird-baths, romcoms,
tea and ginger biscuits,
all of life is amorphous
there is no great meaning out there
like they tell you all the time, my boy,
do not try to be anything,
just be, that’s the code phrase.
The shrink leans back
exhausted by his own oratory,
turns around
to pop a tranquilizer.
Slow Train to Matheran
Built in the year 1_07
by Sir Adamjee Peerbhoy
proclaims the tin-board,
rust having corroded history.
The toy train chugs up and down
the mountain,
on its single track,
valiant, dogged, breathless,
a tad shaky, balance wise.
You could hop off the train
gather mulberries and wild flowers,
chomp on juicy clover,
hop back again
at the next curve.
Ravines beckon
with their lavender secrets,
ensnaring shreds
of morning mists,
a lone eagle rides air-currents,
its flight languorous,
introspective.
You could dive headlong
into the lavender depths
of the valley,
end it all,
or choose to live
another day.
While in Matheran
pause frequently
to gaze back
at the brooding pathways
vanishing to a leafy point.
The dark dreaming forests
are frequently treacherous,
they could throw a veil over memory.
Your past might cannon
into the present,
the future could sprout
the wings of a moth,
glide down one of the many
cliff edges,
be lost to you, forever.
There is a trickster quality
to the ancient trees
and so, guard your tourist soul.
Stand still in the shade
to gaze up
at the filigreed blue,
simian faces might gaze back
at your worldly worries.
Waft through abandoned villas
lend a kindly ear
to the whispers of British ghosts,
the dead colonists are a lonely bunch.
The musty rooms speak many stories
empty swings are known
to rattle at midnight.
Avoid moonless nights.
Do touristy stuff,
hike to cliff-edge points,
you will find the mountains
stoic and silent,
privy to a hundred human tragedies
a hundred free fall deaths.
Tribals traipsing down
sheer mountain faces
may smile indulgently,
self-annihilation from mountain-tops
is a luxury afforded
only to over-thinking urbanites.
Saunter through the red dust,
inhale the smells of horse dung,
buy straw-hats, wild honey,
peanut candy and dry grasses.
Sit back, relax,
let go of the structured
revel in the nebulous,
disable the hardware and software
of intellect and soul,
experience osmosis,
morph into your surroundings.
Take a slow train to Matheran.
(*Matheran is a quaint motor-free hill-station near Mumbai)
These poems were part of The Poetry Issue 2023, curated by Shireen Quadri. © The Punch Magazine. No part of these should be reproduced anywhere without the prior permission of The Punch Magazine.
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