Minakhi Misra

Some days it takes a lot to stir
The settled feelings in my heart.
Some days it takes only a look:
A look that tells me, “Yes, she knows.
She knows the fissures of her heart.
She knows the ants that make it home.
She knows the rains that clump the grain.
She knows she can be on her own.
And though she knows the hefty price,
She knows she’ll promptly pay it twice.”

They say she is eleven now.
Although I think she should be twelve.
It doesn’t matter what I think.
No longer do I have a claim.

It matters, though, that she is well.
That she’s again in dancing dress.
That dancing brings her friendship, joy.
And not the trauma left behind.

It matters, though, that she is loved.
Her parents seem so nice, so sweet.
They value her and give her time.
They fill her with the care she needs.

They say she likes the box of books
I sent her all those years ago.
They say she thinks she’s Gryffindor.
I think she’s right. She _is_ so brave.

They say she still has nightmares, though.
Of men with betel-juicy lips.
Of prickly beards and calloused hands.
They say she comes to them to cry.

I wish the darkness of my dreams
Could suck the darkness scarring her.
I will trade-off a thousand dreams
To gift her nights of blissful sleep.

I woke up looking at my pants.
A habit formed by childhood dreams.
Though nothing’s wrong, though all is well,
I find my throat is full of screams.

I saw his claws. His talons sharp.
The talons tearing out my skin.
His beak, with streaks of dripping milk,
Announcing loud my count of sins.

The dream is gone, the vision’s there.
The vision’s playing Hide and Seek.
As I am it, I count to ten.
By eight, my pants are wet. They reek.

No, no, babu. He didn’t die.
He was eaten. By the shadows.
Eaten from the inside.
I saw it. He came to me. Me.
Though we never got along,
Even as three-four year olds.
Though he called me names,
Though I slapped his wife,
Though he beat me naked in the street.
Sixteen-year-old. Naked.
He stripped my dignity.
Who’d marry their son to me?
I’m husbandless, childless, nameless.
Still, he came to me. Me.
Because he knew. He knew.
I’m the only one who’d believe him.
He didn’t die, babu. He was eaten.

You’re too schooled, babu.
You’ve forgotten your grandma’s wisdom.
You’re protected too. That thread.
That Brahma thread you wear.
It keeps you safe, babu.
You don’t see its power.
So, you don’t see the power of the shadows.
You choose not to see. No one does.
But I have seen, babu. I have seen.
On my bed, he shat blood.
On my floor, he peed blood.
On my plates, he puked blood.
The shadows were eating him, babu.
Eating up all his insides.

“Organ fail” they said.
What do they know?
Go ask them why his organs failed!
They said because he drank.
Every man drinks here, babu.
They have a bottle in their hand
From much before they grab their…
Chee chee. Not before you, babu.
I’ll rot in hell if I utter such obscenities.
Before a threaded Brahmin. Shiva Shiva.
Every man drinks here, babu.
You also know. They drink, they shout.
They shout, they beat their women.
They beat their women, and then stick…
Chee Chee. Shiva Shiva.
He didn’t die, babu.
The other men drink to their eighties.
And my brother’s organs fail at thirty?
They didn’t fail, babu.
They were eaten.

You know he worked the nights?
Our caste people work the nights.
We are used to cremation grounds.
Why do you think they call on us?
Because our caste knows. Knows.
Knows what others choose to dismiss.
They call us the witching caste.
Those… chee chee.
No, no, babu. It’s not alright.
You might be okay. I will rot in hell.
They have the gall to call us witches.
As if we bring the shadows.
The shadows are there. Always there.
We keep them away. Away from all.
They sleep because we stay up.
And those… Witching caste! Thoo…

He worked the nights, babu.
Like our father and his brothers.
And their father and their uncles.
He was there for the burnings.
All the burnings.
He did the things he was taught to do.
Every single time, he did.
If there was rain, he’d mix some flour.
You don’t know? You’ve forgotten.
Your grandma had wisdom. Great wisdom.
You haven’t seen the rice powder patterns?
Yes, yes. Those. The rain washes it.
So, you have to mix wheat flour with water.
The rain can’t wash it so easily.
Not the ones we make.
Our caste’s secret. Many secrets we have.
My brother knew the secrets.
All the secrets. Accomplished he was.
Even at twenty, he banished big shadows.
Powerful shadows. The shadows that roll.
Ask the Panigrahis. Their son has seen.
He saw and he went mad. Ask him.
He knows. When I told him, he believed.
He knows. We who know, know.

My brother, he did all the things.
Every single time. Without fail.
He will make others wait.
Better to wait an hour in the dark
Than have the shadows darken you.
You will never know sleep, babu.
They can feed on your dreams.
Ask the Sahu widow. Go, ask.
Not a night she has slept.
Like you, she’s schooled. Big books.
But what will books do? No sleep.
There’s also…okay okay.
My brother, he did all the things.
Very particular. Very strict.
But you know how things were.
Day and night, the bodies came.
Three weeks. Day and night.
Families came twice. Thrice also.
Today the mother, tomorrow, the son.
Today the wife, tomorrow, the man.
All families. Two-two, three-three dead.
Punishment for all this schooling.
Modern people! Modern habits.
Forgotten everything. All wisdom lost.
Your grandma too. All wisdom lost.

Day and night the bodies were coming.
No time. Fast, fast, they made him hurry.
No one wanted to wait. To stand there.
Masks, gloves, jean pants, shoes.
In the holy grounds. Sacred grounds.
Shiva Shiva. And no patience. No waiting.
They made him hurry, babu.
What’s it to them? They will go back.
Bombay, Hyderabad, Bangalore.
They will go away. We stay. We remain.
And he has to work in the grounds.
Work the nights. Every night.
What’s it to them? Those…
They killed him, babu. Ignorance!
Ignorant educated fools!
They made him hurry, babu.
He’d be here now, babu.
They made him hurry.

There! That’s the bolt moving.
I must learn how to move it so.
So slow. So soft. So smooth.
It’s barely making a sound.
I’m going to grab this thief tonight.
Three nights it has been now.
Three nights of silent intrusions.
Three nights of lighter donation boxes.
I’m going to grab this thief tonight.

There, he’s coming in. Sshh. Hide.
Wait. Hold on. Hold on. Wait.
It’s a woman? A woman in a saree?
Wait. It’s Kapila’s woman. That hip.
Aah. Now I know why she’s here.
It’s for that son. The mental one.
Always sick. Always crying.
Always needing doctor visits.
Must be tough on the purse.
And with Kapila’s job gone.
They say she brings the cash now.
Does dishes. Scrubs floors.
That hip. That hip when she scrubs.
No wonder she brings the cash.
Who wouldn’t pay to see that hip?
Just look at it. How that saree flows.
Hide. Hide. She’ll see.

Wait.

So what if she does? She’s the thief.
She’s the one who should be scared.
She’s the one who’ll go to jail.

Wait. Wait. Hold. Sshh. Don’t rush.
Wait for her to take the cash.
You can’t prove anything yet.
Keep the phone ready. For photo.
No, no. Video. Take video.
Look at her. Heroine.
Wasted on that damn Kapila.
Wasted on that mental son.
Now, she’ll waste in a jail cell.
Wait. Wait. Wait. Hold.
Think. What good is she in jail?
No, no. There’s another way.
It’s the temple money anyway.
Donation money. From the street.
Who is to say if it is a bit lighter?
I’m the one who lifts it anyway.
It gets quite heavy by Friday.
Twenty-two steps with that box.
If only the trustees came twice a week.
But no. Only Friday to collect.
Only one day in a whole week.
Just the times, I think.
When the temple was open
They cleared this every single day.
Now, lockdown. Doors closed.
No Gods. No tip for the poor priest.
I have my needs too, don’t I?

Wait. Wait. Hold.

What is she doing? A coconut?
She’s offering a coconut to the Gods?
Praying? What nonsense is this?
She prays and then steals?

Shit. Bloody keypad.
Hide. Hide. She’ll see. Hide.
No. No. She heard it. Did she?
Wait. There! There! Got it!
Got her sticking something in.
Into that blouse of hers.
Video is proof. Now, after her.
But when did she…?
No time. After her.

Aah. Got you, you…

“Don’t make a single noise.
I have recorded everything.
You don’t want the Police.
Take them out. Take out the notes.”

Stop struggling. Bloody. Stop…

“Stay put. Stay, you… Stay, I say.
Now, take them out. Now. Yes.
Take them out. Or I’ll have to.”

Yeah. Keep struggling. I’m bigger.
And now, I get to touch you there.
Hold, you… Hold.

“Ssshhh. You want the police?”

Aah. Soft. So soft. So…Wait.
Wait. Wait. Hold. What is this?
She’s stealing tulsi leaves?
Tulsi leaves? Wet tulsi leaves?
Coconut water? What?

“Wait. Wait. Don’t scream.
It’s a mistake. Wait. Don’t.”

Run. Run. Now. She’ll spin it.
She’s a woman. Run. Now.

“Sshh. Calm down. Sshh.”

Run. Wait. Wait. The door.
Someone’s at the door. Who?
Wait. Let go of her. If they see…

“Who’s there? At the door. Who?”

No. No. No. Stop screaming. No.

Oh good. Oh thank God. It’s Debu.

“Debu, Debu. Catch her. Catch her.
Thief. Thief. Catch her, son. Catch her.”

Wait. Wait. Hold on. Wait.
Why’s he running there? She went that way.
Wait. Oh God. Oh no. No. No. Oh no. No.

“Aaaahhhhhhhh”

The sugar “brings a diabetes” or two,
Depending on the nurse who catches you.
At times, you get away with stinky looks.
At times, you get a jab of insulin.

The ones in charge, the ones _you_ keep in-charge,
The ones who live on _your_ retirement –
The nerves on them, sometimes, do get to you –
Ingrates, they embargo sugar cubes!

These sugar cubes cost you thirteen pills
Of pain alleviation medicine –
You had promised two weeks, but you counted wrong,
Or so you told the Hypoglycemic.

She has no use for those, except to buy
Her favourite rum raisins off Gouty Guy,
Who got away with every little thing
Because of all the pain he’s always in.

He’s not supposed to have your pain-relief,
She’s not supposed to have the alcohol,
And you are not supposed to have the cubes,
But such is how economies are freed!

A poet monk of some repute
Was known to run a yearly class.
And all who came to learn from him
Returned their way with hearty laughs.

The monk, according to his faith,
Would say a thing that made no sense,
But soon, they’d find an ocean worth
Of poems flowing from their pens.

When asked, the students never told
The secret that the monk had shared.
But on the day the wise one died,
They hung the scroll he’d once prepared.

And now you find its copies stuck
On tables where some poets sit.
The secret to all poetry:
“At first, begin. Then, finish it.”

I’m staying drunk throughout the day.
Of course, it isn’t alcohol –
No beer, no shots, no desi stuff –
But worse than these on withdrawal.

I pour the whines of my past
Into my inadequacy:
Embellished and romanticized,
Into some epic fantasy.

I am the knight in armour who
Awaits the damsel in distress
To come and show him sympathy
For carrying all the heaviness.

“Oh look at me. My fate’s acursed.
My future’s ransomed for my past.
I could have been an emperor
Whose empires forever last.

“But all I have’s a shadowed mind,
An open sail that drags me back.
I dreamed of having bags of gold,
But all I have’s a lemon sack.

“Alas! My dreams will never be.
I have too much to deal with now.”
And on and on I pity on
Myself instead of thinking how –

Of how to find the strength in steel,
To thank the shadows for the shade,
The headwinds for the cooling sweat,
And lemons for the lemonade.

He waited near the Banyan tree.
He waited for the rain to stop.
He knew it shouldn’t matter now.
And yet he waited for the sun.

It rained like it had not in weeks.
It rained for hours and hours and hours.
And hours and hours and hours he stood,
Awaiting sunshine on his face.

It dusked on him that night had come.
And night was not the time to go.
He stepped into the falling rain
And umbrellaed the coils of rope.

I think I have the Thinkerbug.
I think I like to think a lot.
I think about the winnings too.
I like to score without the shot.

I think I have the Thinkerbug.
My thinkfulness appears as sloth.
Of course, I’d brew coffee for you.
I don’t – it wouldn’t have the froth.

I think I have the Thinkerbug.
I think it makes me lonely, fat.
I think the cure is acting more.
But I don’t think I’m sure of that.