Author: Minakhi Misra

Her pancakes puff on Eno salts.
Her veggies tap to cleaver waltz.
Her teas perfume in beer mugs.
Her eggus run to give you hugs.
Her cheesy ramens slurp your mood.
Her corny salads sauce you good.
Her soya meat’s a Schrödinger.
Her kaadhas heal the worst injured.
Her peanut noodles complicate.
Her mixture pohas dominate.
Her chocosattu frees your soul.
Her hummus dosa makes you whole.
Her Insta’s full of recipes:
Her failures and her expertise.
Her lab is full of magic, but
Her guinea pig’s an idiot.

She patters down on cherry keys –
Untimely rain on hot granite –
The “Silence!” symbol on her desk
Ensures that no one puts a fight.

I break the rule and wave at her,
Admiring her keyboard choice.
She smiles and shoots another burst
Of AK-47 noise.

“It must be hard, no, Sister Miss?
These patients just complain a lot.
You’re working hard throughout the night
And they just say you rather not.”

“They’re jealous of my honest work,”
She feels her string of plastic pearl.
“They’re threatened by my confidence.
They cannot stand a working girl.”

“If I could type as fast as you,”
I take a seat beside her chair.
“I too would have your confidence.”
She tucks a strand of errant hair.

“He’s sleeping well?” she turns to ask.
I smile and nod and feign a snore.
“I’ve heard him, yeah,” she giggles out.
“There’s no one louder on this floor.”

“You have so many underlines,”
I point towards her desktop screen.
“Just spelling errors, no one cares,”
She doesn’t mind me leaning in.

“I want to try your keyboard once,”
I brush against her Savlon hands.
“Your index on the F and J,”
She tucks another errant strand.

I gently tap the tactile keys
And type the words that she had typed.
I “sign” her “sine”, and “claim” her “clem”,
And wipe my hands as she had wiped.

“It’s quite the keyboard, Sister Miss,”
I start but cannot end my line.
She cuts me with a wounded stare,
“I’ll do my work now, please don’t mind.”

No more the thunders of her keys.
The ward enjoys its silent night.
I silence down my conscience:
“I only did what I felt right.”

Resolve to love the art you make.
Though love is hard and takes your all.

Forgive, but don’t forget mistakes.
You learn to climb with every fall.

Observe your world. See how things work.
And why they work in certain ways.

Procrastinate. Make something else.
Ideas need to marinate.

Be child-like. Wonder teaches best.
Reveals the beauty others miss.

Indulge in frequent fantasy
And turn them into to-do lists.

Create to bring a change in you,
Before you change humanity.

Commit your life to daily work
To focus your insanity.

Be open to a mystery.
Unknown is where your art will bloom.

Create, create with urgency.
Your end is coming way too soon.

She got her cleaning job this year.
Her husband used to have the job.
He passed away at thirty four.

Her girl will join her soon, she says.
She’s turning eighteen late this month.
She had her early. Not with him.

The girl is lettered. English too.
The first at home to finish school.
She’ll join the nursing class in June.

His death has done a lot of good.
Insurance, rations, government aid.
It’s double income, half expense.

No longer stuck in kitchen chores.
A lady with a government job.
No contract either. Permanent.

She’s come in today’s papers too.
They clicked her with the ladies staff.
Something about some Women’s Day.

Release your hurt.
Relieve your heart.
Forgo your pride.
Forgive your part.

Provoke a thirst.
Provide a thought.
Your world can gnaw.
Your word cannot.

How unprepared, how insecure,
How easily immobilised –
HIs fear of losing all control
Is all that’s keeping him alive.
How thoughtful, helpful, useful: fear.
I’m thankful, grateful, hopeful, here.

Again, hallucinations rage.
Again, we hear him howl, berate.
Again, the doctors don’t know much.
Again, prescription’s “Pray and Wait.”

The uncut cake reminds us all
That some things never change.
A word of tenderness, a call,
Is still so foreign, strange.

The days that should be festivals
Are festering inside.
We wonder if it’s worth the work
To wipe the tears we cried.

I’ve gone and done it yet again.
I’ve lost my focus, lost my star.
In chasing blinking tail-lights, lost
The reason why I’m looking far.

I started with a simple truth:
I want my space and time to write.
And somehow I have bartered both
For less than what I’ve lost inside.

At least, I still have inky nails.
At least, the coffee cup to cope.
For all the shouting, fighting, lies,
At least, I’m dangling from a hope.

It never is just wrong and right.
Or left and right. Or left and lost.
The cost of human hubris ranks
A little higher than the banks
That flood to trade the arbitrage,
Invade our privacy at large,
And claim return on capital,
While burning down the plausible
On altars to the alternates,
To profit from conflicting states.