Minakhi Misra

She did not understand a word
Of English that I’d read to her,
But every Sunday she would come,
Entreating me to read to her.

I did not read so well back then.
I stammered, mispronounced my words.
I did not pause at commas, dots,
But still, with joy, I’d read to her.

I’d read to her my comic books,
My classwork books, my story books.
I did not know a single book
I did not want to read to her.

Her palms were made of leather then
To help her wash the thousand clothes
She wrestled with behind our well
As I began to read to her.

They say she’s hard of hearing now,
Of seeing, smelling, tasting too,
But, Misra, if she knows your touch,
Her leather lines, go, read to her.

He’s been a tailor forty years,
But only one in Gate Bazaar
Who doesn’t wear a tailored shirt,
Or tailored pant, or tailored laugh.

His multicoloured factory tees
Are well-contrasted with the jeans
He buys in black from cycle gangs
Who pilfer merch through shady means.

He’s favourite of the locals, though.
They say his tape can measure love:
When mother’s love will add an inch
And spouse’s love will shave it off.

He knows who want their pockets deep.
He knows who want their pockets small.
He knows who want their pockets hid
Inside the linings of their shawls.

The young and old, the rich and poor,
Rely on him for daintiness,
Then why he doesn’t stitch himself
A pair or two of formal dress?

The elderly in dhotis say,
About some fifty years ago
When riots happened every day
And lynchings made for popcorn show,

There was a tailor, handsome smart,
In fittest, neatest, tailored clothes,
Who stitched for MPs, MLAs,
For swearings-in and public oaths.

They say he thought he could be one
And dressed accordingly enough.
He’d often hang around their house
And do their bidding, little stuff.

One day, however, MLAs
In heat of drunken rioting
Adjudged the tailor’s ambition
Quite arrogant, disquieting.

They went into his seamster store
And ripped his collared shirt to shreds
And ripped him open alongwith,
And left the floor in flowing reds.

His little one who saw it all,
Upon their tattered bodies swore
He’ll never wear a tailored pair
And never aim beyond the store.

Arrival of this chequered guest
With specs he only wears for dress
Reminds me to beware of his
Interminable games of chess
He plays with pawns of uncles, aunts
And cousins close and far removed
And even their domestic help
And strangers in their neighborhood.

He keeps himself away for months
But come Diwali, Puja time
He shows up with tobacco teeth
And choicest fruits of winter clime
To sit and peel and chew and spit
Invented genealogies
Of ancient slights, fraternal fights
And yet unmade apologies.

He crochets up a yarn of time
Into confusing pirate knots
Of narratives that apparate
As Conan Doyle, Christie plots.
And then he waves his crochet wand
With flair of wizards masterful,
And holding knots in either hand,
Untangles with a single pull.

My parents, full of gratitude,
Declare they are so fortunate
To have him have their bullseye backs
Against the darts of envy, hate.
They shower him with sweets and praise
And tell me to be more like him.
I shut my mouth and meekly smile
With dimness of a knight on rim.

I try to see his board entire.
I know it’s but his zwischenzug –
His move between the obvious moves –
Before his queen and pair of rooks
Coordinate and capture pawns
To grab more space – ancestral land –
But then I fail in making sense
Of how he has his endgame planned.

He has no wife, no legal heirs.
He lives his chequered life alone.
And though he’s only fifty now
He’s peeing through a bladder stone.
His BP’s low, his sugar’s high,
His lungs are often out of breath,
So even if he captures all,
How does he plan to deal with death?

I see. He too is just a pawn
In hands of mighty Loneliness,
Who keeps us all engrossed in some
Interminable games of chess.

The day devours many hours
From right under your nostril towers
If unprotected by the powers
Of calendars with coloured stars.

The night then slips into the mix
Its AI-ML engine tricks
Which keep suggesting content picks
That throw your calendar afar.

Some poems come quite instantly
In moments I’m waking up,
Or working through a coffee cup.
They come with sudden urgency,
As if whatever’s left in me
That didn’t assimilate in me,
That didn’t become a part of me,
Is now coagulating down
Into a coloured poignancy.
They bring me great relief when out.
A moment’s lightness pervades me.
Expressed in right consistency,
These poems have a stickiness,
Endowed unmistakably
With airs that shock and move the eyes
That risk even an idle glance.
No wonder they are simply shit.

I wonder if the fairy tale,
Where mermaid turns her mermaid tail
Into two human appendage,

Which feel impaled by thousand knives
With every step of grounded stride
And every second’s idle life,

Is just a warning tale about
The pains of leaving water out
Of daily diet, getting gout.

“I’ll come to you in half an hour”,
Was what she told me every hour.
She asked me why I did not help
My mother clean the dusty shelves
And pick the fallen shiuli pods
And stitch the garlands for our gods
And check finances yet again
And clean the clogging washroom drain
And boil the cups of lemon tea
And buy some better fitting tees
And entertain that sudden guest
And join him on his scheming quest
And listen to complaints all day
And nod my head this way that way
And work and talk and eat and rest
Before arriving at my desk.
But even at this midnight hour
She tells me, “Yes, yes. Half an hour.”

So much depends on waking up
And knowing you have woken up.
It’s commomer to open eyes
To manufactured dreamy lies
Repeated everywhere you see,
Incepting deficiency.

By reinforcing shame and fear
With ads unnaturally clear,
We steal your powers to question, doubt,
Your time and space to figure out
The things you have, the things you need,
Penumbras of your growing greed.

We call this theft a service done
To help you choose our chosen one,
Thus freeing up your precious hours
That you can spend on watching stars
Who twinkle on your OLED screens
And show you all your neighbours’ dreams.

It’s okay to be scared, alone,
But not okay to overwrite
Your every single line of love
With frenzied, foolish, futile fights.

It’s okay to be full of flaws,
To feel inadequate, ashamed,
But not okay to throw away
The solemn promise you proclaimed.

It’s okay to repent at night,
To cry, submit your will, and pray,
But not okay, upon the dawn,
To not atone again today.

“A silver lining”, “brighter side,” —
The fragrances of fairy fart —
Are great for textbook moral science,
Or even fortune cookie lines,
But spare me those on Monday morns
When all I see is pending work
From people taking happy hours
A bit too early Friday last.
My mind is not a clear pond.
The shit they’ve dumped is bobbing on.
The water’s gray with moldy green.
In it, the only good I’ve seen:
A Narcissus won’t smile, but frown.
Won’t fall into himself and drown.