Minakhi Misra

I want to do a thousand things
And want to do them well.
But I have time for just a few
Before I go to Hell.

I don’t know yet which few to choose;
So many to resolve.
Should I just pick and run with one,
So long as I evolve?

I’ve done that with my poem streak,
Though not so well, I guess,
For now I find it competing
Against my fling with chess.

My body wants to get in shape,
My soul into zazen,
My mind into more languages
That I can someday pen.

It’s good that poems write themselves.
I just have to make time
And show up at my writing desk
To catch the passing rhyme.

The rest I have to sequence, though;
Can’t work them all at once.
Let’s exercise and meditate,
So others stand a chance.

When soul and body are in place,
As fit as they can be,
The mind will be more productive
And have more energy.

Of course, I’ll touch the hobbies still
For daily minutes few,
Till such a time when I can bring
The effort they are due.

When he goes to bed every night,
He turns his back on half the world
And plants his right ear to the pillow
Listening perhaps for hoofbeats
Of sheepish sleep approaching.

A few minutes or some hours later
He turns to face with a quiet groan
The other half of the ignoring world,
Taking care to keep up appearances
Even though no one had cared for him.

I’ve never seen him fully-guarded:
Never belly-down, never foetal.
And I’ve never seen him fully-open:
Never belly-up, never blanketless.
He sleeps like he fights his days.

One wonders if his dreams, at least,
Bring him the peace he so seeks.

The warmth of her poetry
Does not reach me today.
How can it, though?
I’m already burning
With pride and envy.

I see her and see “potential”,
The word I now reject,
For all I have been is that.
I see her and see “disappointment”,
The word I now accept,
For all I am is that.

Poetry will get her too, no doubt.
She’s doomed and she loves it.
She’s had a taste of that delight.
She ain’t lettin’ it go. No, no.
A moth drawn to the LED bulb.
It won’t kill her like that oven did,
But she’ll keep butting her head in
And die naturally of a wasted life.

Or she’ll prove me wrong
And save me along the way.

He winds it as soon as he wakes:
That rusted dial on the silver watch
That has long lost its minute hand
And may soon lose its hour too.
Only the seconds tick away strong.
“No matter, no matter,” he says
And winds it again every morn.
I ask him why, though I know the why.
And like always, he shrugs and smiles.
“Why let it die when it can be saved?”
And like always, I nod to myself and then
At the garlanded portrait behind him
Of the man who used to wear it
And of the woman’s beside that
Who had once told me long ago
How the ticking of the silver watch
Was all the memory they had of him
After he decided to hang himself
While his teenage son slept inside.

“Arrive late at the farmer’s market,
And all the good greens are gone.”

I roll my eyes at Dad’s wisdom.
I try to remind him, calmly as I can,
Marriage is not veggie shopping.
It’s not even a good metaphor.

“Of course, it is,” Mom chimes in.
“Your raw mangoes gave you bellyache.
Now, you want an overripe mango
To give you lifelong dysentery?”

I pause to consider.

“Some friends would agree,” I say.
“Marriage does make you veggies.
It dunks you in cold water
Way, way over your head.
And it gets under your thin skin
With all sorts of sharp things
And peels out your exterior
To reveal your tender insides,
To slice and dice and grate you,
And throws away your root and core.
Whatever remains in tiny pieces
Boils in Society’s spiciness,
Gets tossed around, this way and that,
And changes colour completely.
After all that, it still expects you
To be tastefully nourishing.
Oh yeah, you’re right on.”

Mom looks at Dad, who looks at me.
“You practised that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say. And we all start laughing.

I always know the right thing to say
Though never until it’s far too late.
I always know when to hold my tongue
Though never have I given it weight.

I know what hits.
I know what maims.
I know what cuts
Through the deepest veins.

When all I can ever do is hurt,
And all I can ever be is hurt,
Why do you even try to love me?
Why don’t you just run and shove me?

Stay away, love. Stay away.
Look for a new sun on a new day.

When did you start? he asked.
Around sunrise, I said.
Fast fast you ran up?
More like a brisk hike.
Brisk brisk, fast fast, same same.
Hike isn’t same as run, though.
I see, I see. Not even an hour.
It’s not as tough as they said.
Thousand steps, easy, yes.
Yeah. Not too steep either.
But one journey, very tough.
Which journey?
One you missed on the way.
I heard the waterfall. Looked risky.
I see, I see. You come alone?
Yeah. Alone for now. I’m new here.
I see, I see. No wife, no kids?
No wife, no kids. Not yet, no.
I see, I see. No kids, no mangoes.
Which mangoes?
Ones you missed on the way.
Yeah, kids get distracted easy.
Ripe ripe, sweet sweet, not fridged.
Maybe I’ll pick on my way down.
I see, I see. No wife, no gulmohars.
Which gulmohars?
Ones you missed on the way.
Yeah, women get distracted easy.
Red red, scent scent, not bottled.
Maybe I’ll pick on my way down.
I see, I see. No distract. Focus.
Yeah. I wanted to get here first.
I see, I see. No patience, no journey.
Could you just tell me where it is?
No journey, no destination.
Right. Thanks. Here, keep the change.
I see, I see. No need money.
Right. I’ll look this way first, I guess.
No destination, no looking.
Right. I knew it was an urban legend.
I see, I see. So you don’t believe?
The Key to Awareness! Here? Nope.
I see, I see. The teachers will show.
Which teachers?
Ones you missed on the way.
Right. They hold this Key?
They offer Key. No journey, no Key.
Maybe I’ll pick on my way down.
I see, I see.

I hear his cane tap the leg
Of his four-poster wooden bed
And realise I’d dozed off again
In my comfortable reading chair.
“To the bathroom?”
“Sshhhhhh”
He frowns and canes his way
Tap tap tap tap
To the open window to his left,
Closes his eyes as he reaches it,
And smooths his face into a smile.

Then he canes his way to the library,
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap
To the shelf in the south-east corner,
And as he slides the glass open,
I realise what he’s doing there.
He pulls the box down off the books
And wipes it on his pajama pants
And presses an end till the other slides
To reveal the blue brilliance
Of his fifty-three-year-old harmonica.

He canes his way to the window again,
Tap tap again, tap tap again,
Frowns again, closes eyes again,
And plays the only tune he knows,
In step with the beat coming up
From the leaking tap in the yard.

I saw a waterfall after three long years
And all I thought was: this isn’t tall enough.

I saw a baby crawling to her birthday cake
And all I thought was: she isn’t fast enough.

I saw a winter tree sprouting a spring leaf
And all I thought was: it isn’t stark enough.

I saw a filled notebook of my daily poems
And all I thought was: this isn’t good enough.

I have at least three projects due
But the hours left in the day are few.
And now a little poem tugs
At my hand with a vigour new.

I cannot play with you just yet.
Could you come at the time we set?
In the morning, around my desk?
For I shall then be in your debt.

Important versus urgent tasks?
The poem with a tantrum asks.
I laugh out and go play with it
Forgetting about wearing masks.