Where once I said, “Wow”,
I now say, “Gawdammit.”
Another virgin metaphor
Stolen from my future works.
Reading depresses me.
—
She says I make her cry –
Louder than he ever managed –
With my tongue and long fingers
So used to reading aloud and writing.
—
Thank God for Protection. It covers
The riskiness of digging someone
Else’s property without permit.
—
No longer do I part my hair.
A man with an axe is loose.
—
Poetry sucks like a fallen pornstar.
When I worked for a week
As a salesman at a bookstore,
I learned that it’s best to place
The stools in the poetry section.
One,
It’s the lower half of the corner
Between romances and cookbooks,
Between fiction and non-fiction:
A ‘tweener no one cares about.
So, if it’s hidden behind a bent back
No one really misses it.
Two,
This is the only way to get people
To pass their eyes over the poetry,
While they shift on the cushion
Looking for that perfect comfort
They know they won’t get here.
Three,
The product just doesn’t move.
So, you don’t worry about reshelving.
And you don’t stand awkwardly
Waiting for the arthritic lady to get up,
After her son comes, shakes his head,
Says they should’ve ordered online.
Four,
You don’t really mind the kids
Sticking their chewing gum
Between two poetry books
Where no one will find out.
Poems are supposed to stick, right?
Five,
The manager doesn’t notice
When you sit down to override
The barcode and slip the book
Into your bag and out of the shop.
You always have time to return
If your conscience is such a fattu.
Six,
You get to quote a verse or two
To the curly cutie with glasses.
And reach your arm across her
To gently pull on a slender spine
Just behind her right ear.
He was focussed so fully on
Zigzagging his aging Splendour,
Charting a minesweeper route
Through drying cow dung cakes,
That he was fully blindsided when
The black boar crashed into him.
He fell to the left, bike on leg,
And a crunch reached the rooftops
Between screams of a shocked engine.
The boar, lying, made no noise
Except a laboured wheezing.
They rushed to him, pulling him
From under his dying Splendour,
Lifting him to the side of the street,
Propping him on someone’s steps,
Wiping his unhelmeted, wetting hair,
And checking for a pulse, if any.
Someone ran a finger before his eyes,
Declared he was conscious and okay,
And proceeded to tap on the left leg
Till his shout reached the rooftops.
An old woman and her sons
Rushed to the boar, pulling it
To the other side of the street,
Propping it on someone’s slide,
Wiping away the foaming mouth
And checking for a breath, if any.
She ran her fingers on its hide,
Declared it was conscious but not okay,
And proceeded to shoot a finger out
Till her shout reached the rooftops.
“He killed my boar, my precious boar.
He killed my means of livelihood.
He might as well have killed me.
He is a killer, good people. Killer.”
Her elder son held her close to heart
And shot his own finger at the crowd.
“Don’t let him go till he pays for this.
Don’t let him get away with this.”
Too many shouts in too many tongues
Then reached the rooftops on the street.
Some this side, some that side,
Some in the middle crying Reason.
“It’s an accident,” said they.
“He accidented it,” said a side.
“It accidented him,” said the other.
Broomsticks came to stomp on steps,
Hempen ropes to slap the slides,
And someone in their senses still
Told the semi-senseless man
To leave some cash on the steps
And leave with him through a door
To the back side of this street.
“My bike?” he asked.
“Your life?” he asked.
“But…”
“No time, no time.”
So, while the broomsticks stomped
And the hempen ropes slapped,
The men slipped through a door
And cash slipped through the crowd
To the hands of the old woman.
Now, when you stand on the rooftops
You see the woman train her boars.
“Good boy. Good boy. Run. Run.”
And you see them butting straight
Into the side of a dead Splendour.
It worried me that day
When he quoted again
Something from my book
And I asked, after nodding,
“Who wrote that?”
No, I wasn’t embarrassed
That I’d forgotten my words.
I was ashamed I had lost
Touch with a beautiful me.
Sweeping through the dust
With a one-wheel open tray,
O’er the streets she goes
Coughing all the way.
The bells on anklets ring
Between her hollow strides
Oh what drag it is to pick
The garbage on the sides.
Stinky smells, stinky smells
Stinky all the way,
Oh what fun it is for us:
She takes them all away.
After a full night of silent sobs
And an hour of pillowed bawling
I pick myself up, pick up a tea,
And climb up to our water tank,
To sit and wait for the sun to rise.
She stumbles out of her door,
Her two-year-oldness bursting
Out of her use-and-reuse diaper,
And crackers a chain of farts.
I almost roll down laughing,
But stay arrested in the moment,
When I see her beaming at me
The best sunrise I’ve seen this year.
The very cousins who coo
To a still-unwedded me
How a man is cursed for life
Without a “proper lady”
Also caw some hours later
To my still-wedded brother
How marriage is a full-time
Occupational hazard
They’re lucky I’m vegan now
It’s easy to sit in hospitals
When no one you know is lying
Inside a ward on an adjustable bed.
It’s easier still to sit there still
When no one you know is sitting
Outside a ward, leaning against despair.
You look at the slip in your hand,
The seven-segment display above,
And wait for the numbers to match.
You thank God this isn’t a casino.
Your number does come up.
You do get to get up and go
Towards that plexiglass counter
Shielding a bored face from you
And your Sunday-morning gloom.
Case number, he asks. You slip him
An orange sticky note under the glass.
He doesn’t thank your thoughtfulness.
He feels snubbed, robbed of power.
No fun reading details from paper
When he can ask you the numbers,
Stop typing midway to crack a joke
For the female colleague beside him,
Laugh alone, look at you with regret
And say, Sorry, could you repeat that?
And you sigh and repeat the numbers
And he repeats his jokes and laughs.
Sorry, sorry. Very sorry. Nine, you said?
You wonder, if surrounded by grief,
This is his way to carpe diem.
You sigh at your c’est la vie
And wait while he complains
About slow Wifi and fast food.
He still does all this with the note,
But at least you don’t keep repeating.
Onions are eighty again, he says.
You blink. Potatoes, fifty too.
Family to feed, you know? You blink.
He nods, sticks the note to his table,
Drums his fingers next to it, frowns,
Looks at you with regret. Sorry, sorry.
Wifi’s down. System can’t process.
Maybe you should come after lunch?
No chai-breakfast for me anyway.
With such prices. You understand, no?
I mean, if insurance doesn’t process,
You also have to deal with the reality.
Even without. Even without. Sorry.
He presses a button on his table.
The number above doesn’t match
The number on your slip anymore.
You sigh and fish out your wallet.
He raises a warning hand to stop
The next person filing behind you.
You pull a blue one-hundred note.
He looks at you with regret. Sorry.
You pull an orange two-hundred.
He looks at you and nods. Laughs.
You look at that laughter,
Look at all the people around,
Look at them leaning against despair,
Look at your wallet’s inner lining,
Look at your sticky note on his table,
Look at the ink of an idea growing on it,
Look at the two-hundred in your hand,
Lower your mask, and lick the paper, full.
You slip the new orange sticky note,
Under the old transparent plexiglass,
And offer your mobile’s 4G hotspot.
Hey, Misra! Wait! I see
Montu bhai running. After
He vanished a few years ago
I hadn’t seen him. Running
Was his thing. Still working
On that, I guess. He lived
On our street. A few years
Earlier, he’d left a rented room
Without paying the rent. He owed
Someone else too. Thought
He was too clever to be caught.
He got time to think it
Through. The bars in his jail cell
Hadn’t been nice to him.
You going to the Mart, Misra?
Yeah, yeah. You too? No, no.
Too expensive. Everything is
Anyway. How are you?
Okay okay. Going to the Mart
And saying okay? Why you
Must be doing just fine. No,
Somethings aren’t available
Elsewhere. There’s a big sale
Too. Big on the purse too? No.
Too much. Some brands cost
Less in the Mart, Montu bhai.
Brands? I buy loose. Always
Not the best quality, though.
Brand is quality, Misra? Come on
Into the Mart, Montu bhai.
Walk with me. Up the stairs,
You get household stuff. Too
Many of those at home. Already
There’s such a crowd. Inside
Isn’t the safest. Way into the Mart,
There’s a quiet corner. To talk
Social distancing is futile. Anyway,
Let’s just stay outside. Marts
I don’t trust, Misra. With my wallet,
I prefer small shops. Mom and Pop
Doing okay? Okay okay. Okay.
Look at those legs! So short
A skirt in Berhampur. Is rare
To see such beauty. You need
Good karma. I tell you, is rare!
Come on, let’s check out
The new items in the Mart, Misra.
Umm. What? Is good quality
Not what you want to grab?
She isn’t loose, Montu bhai.
I knock early on her door.
She thinks I’ve come to shout.
I show a plate of Thursday sweets.
Mother feels sorry about yesterday,
I tell her. Thanks for understanding.
She smiles her suspicious smile.
Two-three days it will take, she says.
What? I ask. The wood, she says.
What wood? I ask and she frowns.
The wood your mother wants
Me to remove from your yard.
But, I don’t understand, wait.
You’ve already removed them, no?
What? she asks. The wood, I say.
I haven’t removed any wood.
There’s no wood in our yard.
She rushes past me, past the door,
Past the street, past the cows,
Past our gate, and screams.
Where’s my wood? Where?
Mother walks out of our door.
Where’s the wood? she hears.
What wood? she asks and frowns.
Didn’t you remove it last night?
No, screams the woman. No.
Where is the wood? Tell me.
I woke up to find the yard empty,
Says Mother. I felt bad for shouting
At you yesterday. I made sweets
For you and your kids too. See?
I show her the plate of sweets.
She storms out and our Tulsi pot
Bends over to touch her feet.
She knocks on neighbours’ doors.
Where’s my wood? she asks them.
What wood? they ask and frown.
My wood in the Professors’ yard.
Ask them. Their yard. Your wood.
It’s too early for all this, no?
On a Margasira Thursday too.
My wood’s gone. Stolen. Gone.
She’s hiding it, yes. That’s right.
Them? Really? Really? Them?
Yes. She didn’t want it there, yes.
Your son graduated because of her.
She didn’t want the wood, yes.
She storms into our yard again.
No pots bend down to touch feet.
Where’s the wood? she screams.
Mother tells her she can come in
And search the whole place.
Just don’t scream, she pleads.
He’s still recovering. Please. Sshh.
I keep the neighbours at the gate.
They want to know what happened.
Someone stole her wood, one says.
What? another asks. The wood, I say.
What wood? he asks and frowns.
The wood she kept in our yard.
The wood your mother shouted about?
Same same. Gone this morning.
Overnight? Overnight. Shiva Shiva.
No sound or noise? Earphones, I show.
I didn’t hear anything, says one.
But we heard your bedding, says another.
All laugh. I smile. They see the sweets.
For her, I say. Of course, of course.
Just a little bit? Thursday prasad, no?
The plate empties itself. All, a little.
She empties out of the house, crying.
Shiva Shiva. Gone, all gone. Gone.
Stolen. Overnight. On a Thursday.
Why didn’t you lock your gate?
‘Cause you made a ruckus yesterday
When we did and you couldn’t
Get to your wood in the morning.
All gone now. On a Thursday.
You shouldn’t fight all the time,
One helpful neighbour helpfully says.
Shut up! My wood is gone now.
What if I enter your house and steal?
Our house, I say, but shut up again.
She looks at the empty faces all around.
I look at the empty plate. All gone.
I walk inside and lock the door.
Mother offers an opened box.
I pick up a sweet and take a bite.
No ghee, no sugar, yet so yum.
Grandma was right, I say.
Thursday sweets taste yummier
When cooked on a wood fire.
Minakhi Misra 