Month: June 2023

These scripted marbles make our case.
We weren’t rich, we weren’t great,
And yet we were considerable.
We meant something to someone else.
Enough to be a marble’s worth.

A daughter lost in childbirth.
A father in an accident.
A brother in the naval trade.
A wife enduring secret pain.
A son exploring taboo acts.
A friend in need of friendly touch.

Though many cannot read the script,
And those who can don’t care for names
Or dates or pithy epigrams,
We matter even underfoot.
We matter though we’re trampled on.
And even now we’re useful still.
We cool the path to Gods within.

Remember what we spoke about
That time we sat to speak about
A thing that meant something to me,
Something to you, unequally?

You found it hard to speak aloud
And chose to send me WhatsApp texts
And I replied in audio notes –
You couldn’t wrap me in my quotes.

You said I’ll act responsibly
But you will never get to see
As only your despaired demise
Would wake in me the worldly wise.

I disagreed, I said I was
Responsible the way I was,
It’s only that it doesn’t look
Like you maintaining ledger books.

And look at me now forwarding
Receipts of bills paid, groceries,
And every other thing you tracked
On files, in folders, neatly packed.

It pinches when the ticks stay gray,
When dashes show under their “Seen”.
It’s not that I’m responsible.
I wish you’ll see it’s possible.

While yours is loving, crazy, fun,
Mine’s a seething vipers’ nest.
When yours is gathered, it’s a feast.
When mine is gathered, it’s a test.

You play the Game of Life in team.
We play a game of empty thrones.
So, if you walk into my ken,
I urge you keep your caution close.

And if your bloodhound nose reports
Unwholesomeness in welcome words,
I urge you spare no wit expense,
For they are generous to curse.

By the time I reach my paper and pen
The line inside has slithered again.

Replacing, sleep arrives and turns
The minute hand another ten.

A dream dissolves my will to write
I strain and tire myself in vain.

Until I curdle up the dream
Around the rings of coffee stains.

O Mister Happy Misra ji,
A poet needs a pinch of pain.

I pause before I type “Diwali”.
Just so “Happy” this Diwali.

It’s not new clothes or new mithaai.
Just sweet laughter this Diwali.

In mourning white, I’m colourfully
Decked in Uno this Diwali.

Gigantic balls of pasted chaawal
Help me swallow this Diwali.

The little one, still struggling with words,
Shows me how to mean “Diwali.”

Go, Misra, build your life again.
You’ve found your Happy this Diwali.

The half-an-hour waiting times,
The red lines on the Google Maps,
The AC vents that blow no air,
(Or blow too cold even at one)
The clanking trunk of CNG,
The luggage in the shotgun seat,
The honking in the toll gate lanes,
The always unwashed window panes,
The joy as destinations near –
O how I’ve missed the Ubers here.

His eyes are always open wide.
Always awonder. Always shocked.
A cup of misti doi alarms.
A crunching water bottle jolts.
He blinks and he is scared of it.
The world around him disappears.
He sighs relieved the world is back.
It’s just a blink. But every blink.
His parents keep him close, caressed.
He stares at everyone who stares.
And then he stares outside the train,
Afraid of blurry wire poles
That pass so close their shadows hurt.
He cries aloud with shooting finger
Pointing at a rising crane,
Whose payload seems about to fall.
The silver khainga mullet fish
Escapes the beak and plops below.
He fists, applauds the shimmer splash.
His eyes relax on Chilika.

My mother asks, “For whom you write?
Your aunt who loves your poetry,
Was laughing with your other aunts,
Who say you are the claypot black
That darkens Father’s memory.
And who’s to say your friends who claim
To love your daily drumming lines
Are not so laughing at you too?
Perhaps you need to kill that part,
So rest of you may thrive again?”

I slurp the claypot-slow-cooked daal,
The bland, “no onion-garlic” daal,
And say, “You haven’t lost your touch.
It’s just as good as used to be.
If this is what the claypot gives,
I’m happy as its underside
That singes to the biting flames.
The black is proof I help to turn
Inert ingredients in them
Into a nourishment they need.
And say I kill that part of me
And bury it with Father’s urn,
The grass that grows above it will
Be sweetest-smelling come the rains.
The rest of me will stink like guests
Who overstay their welcome, Ma.”

She shakes her head and sighs again.
“Denial is addictive, son.
Your poems are denial cooked.
The black is washed.
The grass is mowed.
And look at you so miserable.
If write you must, then write with pride.
Go write like writing means something.
Don’t write so safe. Such limpid lines.
You’re more than you are rising to.
And if you can’t, or if you won’t,
Just end this daily overdose.”

I used to be an optimist.
A little fever was a joke.
I lay and dreamed of everything
I’d do the moment fever goes.
I hardly did a third of that,
Though that is not the point at all.
The point is I could see a life
Beyond the downing fevered days.
But now I lay and do not dream.
I simply say, “This too shall pass.”
Accipere (not amor) fati.
“Or you shall pass,” a voice replies,
Though all there is is temperature.

She never stays indoors to rest.
Especially on days of flu.
If she has fever, so do they.
And they will spill in fevered zeal
The gossip they don’t want to spill.

They only need a caring voice.
“I’m here for you,” as if to say,
“I’m here when no one else is here.”
“I’m here, though I am sick myself.”

They only need a hmn, a nod.
They need to know they have been right.
“You did the only thing you could.”
And that is when it all comes out.
The helpless righteous need to share
Their helplessness, their righteousness.
And she provides the willing ears.

And those occasional, well-timed prompts.
“It must have been so hard for you.”
“I couldn’t do what you have done.”
“You shouldn’t have regrets at all.”
“With time, perhaps, they’ll come around?”

And when the prompts no longer milk,
She reaches in her saree folds
And pulls a story from the ‘hood.
“Her kids have also left her broke.”
“Her husband’s brother brings her gifts.”
“Her nephew tumbles with her girl.”
“Her husband doesn’t pay her bills.”
For nothing flames a victim like
Another victim’s sorrier tale.

The tea, the tears, the pills for flu,
The extra bonus tops her day.
The day that started with her call:
“I’m sick. I cannot work today.”