Author: Minakhi Misra

They call him “Chacha”, nothing else,
For no one knows his name-address.
They call him “Chacha”, Hindi-style –
He’s muslim with no Odianess.

They say he’s come from “border-paar”-
A refugee from Bangladesh.
They say he’s always with his tools –
He fixes cycles, punctures, brakes.

No shop, no sign, no uniform,
No way to show the work he does,
Except the hand-pump on his back,
Except the grease upon his clothes.

He wanders round the college road.
Some dragging feet arrive at him.
Without a word he gets to work:
The pedal, chain, and bent-in rim.

Who cares for names, for native lands,
Who cares how many meals he’s missed,
Who cares for problems he may have,
So long he gets their cycle fixed.

They drop a coin into his palm.
He drops it in a kidney tray,
The one from City Hospital
His wife had neatly nicked away.

It held her bloody afterbirth,
And now it holds his sweaty prize,
Along with dirty water for
Determining the puncture size.

Who cares he has a kidney tray,
Who cares how dark the water’s shade,
Who cares how few the coins are,
So long their cycle rolls ahead.

They care, however, every time,
He’s spotted with his spotless wife.
The one whose bosom jinglebells
While slicing bread with rusting knife.

Beside his roasted groundnut tan,
Her glowing face of groundnuts skinned,
Reminds our temple-skipping boys
Of how unfair our Gods have been.

Sometimes, some cycle-mounted teen,
Emboldened by a gutka load,
Enquires if, like him, she walks
At night, along this college road.

But Chacha only smiles at him
And says, “I know no Odia.
You needed pump? Reflector strips?
In haste to meet somebody, kya?”

Who cares to brake his peddling pace
For what some foolish someone says.
His work’s the only chain that moves
His wheels of past and future days.

I’ve credit, but no currency.
Ambition, but no agency.
Desires, but no discipline.
The ammo, but no magazine.

My vision’s trained along the sight.
My fingers tap the trigger, tight.
I’m going through the motions, keen:
No risk without the magazine.

It shoves you back against your chest,
And pulls the sand beneath your feet.
Disorients you. Discomforts you.
Distorts the taste upon your tongue.
It does this once. And once again.
And once again. And once again.
And yet, you love the sea beach wave.
You run into it willingly.
Submit, surrender, screaming joy.
The man dissolves into the boy.
Why grudge you, then, the tides of Time?

Identified as Odia,
I tend to fie my Odia.

In feasts, in fasts, in festivals,
I flaunt my fumbling Odia.

I pick a book and cannot say
The words are even Odia.

I zig and zag angular shapes
To write the round-round Odia.

I croak corrupt colloquial
And pass it off as Odia.

She blinks when I am blinking at
Her idioms in Odia.

She challenges my English rant –
“Now say the same in Odia.”

She feels she’s failed as mother,
Tongue tut-tutting at my Odia.

Her name of “handful songs” deserves
A ghazal glazed in Odia.

At least, for all she’s done for you,
Go, Misra, thank in Odia.

The things I find so useless now
Were things of beauty, wonder once.
But is that cause enough to love
What is for what it used to be?
The snow that showered yesterday
Is snow to shovel out today.
Or else, I’m stuck and buried soon.

Remember what you hear today.
This waiting hall for grievances
Of people to the Government.
Remember stories that they share
With anger, anguish, helplessness,
Of how they live contingent on
The strokes of disinterested pens.

Remember what you heard those days
In waiting halls of hospitals.
Remember stories that they shared
With anger, anguish, helplessness,
Of how a life’s contingent on
The strokes of disinterested Luck.

At least, your life is not so bad.
You’re not as burdened by such debts,
Both social and financial.
At least, you have alternatives.
You’ve wealth enough to start again.
You’ve health enough to dare to start.
Be grateful for the luck you have.
At least, it isn’t quite so bad.

My journal is for me to write,
For me to read, reflect, revise.
For you, I’ll write a memoir.
For you to dig, digest, despise.
For me, I’ll keep the journal, thanks.
For me, that is, for only me.

My journal is religion.
It’s ritualistic, rigorous.
An act of faith, submissive faith,
That writing it will heal today.
That writing it will clarify,
And keep me grounded.
Right on track.
It takes, on faith, some causal links
That normally I would not take:
Recording brings in Discipline.
With Discipline, it’s Meaningful.
With Meaning comes Maturity.
Maturity makes one Reflect.
Reflection genders Gratitude.
And Gratitude dispels Regret.

This means my journal’s quite a mess.
It’s full of things I do and don’t.
And full of things I feel and don’t.
It’s pick-me-ups and put-me-downs,
Hurrays, but also whining sounds.
Reminders writ repeatedly.
In free hand quite illegibly.
A peek into a state of mind
Too wounded for you to unwind.

You want anecdotes, gossip tales,
Unburdened by the tedium.
My journal will not give you that.
It has the parts, but not the sum.
For you, I’ll write a memoir:
The more readable medium.
Until then, let my journal be.
Or else, your hair, my bubblegum.

I crush my ego with the beans
And offer it in tablespoons.
Baptising in a steaming stream,
I count the drip as rosary.
I sense the scent of strong incense
And taste nirvana on my lips.
Enlightenment. Awakening.
The penance of the aftertaste.
No need for Soma of the Gods.
No need for blood of Holy Grails.
The Devil’s Drink’s my poison picked.

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.