Minakhi Misra

She fears the loss of local lore.
The men and women of my age
Know neither Gods, nor sing their songs,
Forget the plays put up on stage
To keep their stories living strong.

She fears the loss of local herbs.
The men and women and the old
Know neither names, nor use of them,
Forget the bedtime stories told
To learn this creeper or that stem.

She fears the loss of local pride.
The men and women and the young
No longer paint themselves, nor wear
The _jatra_ costumes, strung and swung
In ecstacy of zesty prayer.

In eighty years of selfless art,
They did not let her write her heart.

They fetch her on the jatra days,
To bathe her, clothe her, paint her face,
And loose her like the Goddess Storm
Descended into human form.

Elated, she assaults the street,
And picks up dung with painted feet,
And flicks it on to motorbikes
And kicks whatever she dislikes.

The people watch her from the rooves –
Her shrieking, reeking, Goddess grooves –
And shower on her mango leaves,
Which, with her curses, she receives.

The jatra lasts about an hour.
They let her go with bags of flour,
Forget about her, as before,
To wander as the loony whore.

“If wearing Batman t-shirts could
Provide me Batman’s fortitude,
And even Batman’s fortune too,
I’d torch them all without a chew.
I’m dumb that way. I’d be so lost
With so much unearned plenitude.”

“You sure? It sounds so empty, dude.
You haven’t ever shied away
From freeloading on snacks I buy.
I’ve never seen you even try
To work on earning anything.
Agreed, you’re dumb. Just not that way.”

“Come on. That isn’t even fair.
I don’t know what you’re on about.
I earned my t-shirt – smart retail –
I brought you intel on the sale.
Now get yours with the cash you earn.
The buy-one-get-one’s running out.”

This inward journey simply whelms –
Not over- and not under-. Just. –
I wonder if I like it so.

I find no joy in others’ joy,
No pain in others’ crying pain,
No oneness with their loneliness.

They push. I simply empty out.
Without resistance, balance lost,
They fall ahead. I do not care.

Is this what dead-end jobs are like?
Or treadmill jobs that go nowhere
Despite a lot of huff and puff?

Is this what water feels inside?
Just cycling states and getting bored
Until it’s split by lightning strikes?

Be water, my friend?

I’m getting really really dumb.
I fell for Envy’s oldest trick.
Forgetting what-is, I indulged
In what-if that, or what-if this.

I stalked her LinkedIn all day long,
Forgetting I don’t update mine
Nor care to do so anyway –
A different sky is where I’ll shine.

I even drafted messages –
I cringe to read the words I wrote.
Thank God I never clicked on Send,
Thank God I saved it as a Note.

Despite the daily morning hour
I spend to read Philosophy,
And hours of meditation sits,
I couldn’t catch my Jealousy.

Thank God I’m learning Thankfulness,
And daily counting what I have.
For every wound that Envy gives,
This gratitude is quite the salve.

At least, if nothing else, this much
I have that she has still not….damn!!

You done? You aren’t even here.
And now you throw your weight around?
You think I want your charity?
It’s you who’s “mentally unsound”.

I’ve had this now for eighteen years,
And you couldn’t even notice till
I sat you down and told you all
Two years ago when he got ill.

You say I’m making all this up?
A lifetime pass for all mistakes?
A crutch to rest my failures on?
I sabotage my lucky breaks?

Of course, it’s all just in my mind.
It’s called a “mental illness”, yo!
You get your nosebleed in the butt?
You get your headaches in the toe?

You love me, yes. I love you too.
I know you care. I am no fool.
I know you’re scared. I have been too.
But what you said – that isn’t cool.

I’ve made my path myself so far.
I’ll make it every single day.
You do not have to walk with me.
But do not either block my way.

“You hardly give me any time.
You used to, but not anymore.”
I haven’t met a single guy
Who hasn’t heard these lines before.
Including those who never found
A girl with whom to go around.

No, I’m not saying good or bad,
Or, should or could, or, right or wrong.
I’m saying, “He is different, ya”
Is not a thought that sticks for long.
So, don’t suspend your disbelief,
And save yourself eventual grief.

Though everything is digitised –
Of course, of course, it’s digitised –
They’re only trying to be safe.
A paper file is always safe.
A file with copies, doubly safe.
Two copies this, three copies that.
Signature this, signature that.
A queue for this, two queues for that.
Though everything is digitised.

But so and so didn’t need all this?
Oh ho! I get it, get it now.
A single paper, coloured green,
Is all you ever needed, right?
Why didn’t you say so earlier?
Of course, of course, I should have known.
That step cannot be digitised.

He keeps with him a tarpaulin
To cover veggies on his cart,
But doesn’t carry anything
To cover any body part,

Except the dhoti wound around
His privates, wet and showing through,
As he decides to trudge his strides
Without a moment pausing to

Take shelter under dripping trees
Or squatting under ledges, eaves,
For he knows people sooner part
With clothes or longer handkerchieves

When they see Poverty parade
Its jaded jewels down the street,
Compared to when Sincere Trade
Is labouring in summer heat.

From task to task to task to task.
You pause, the darkness catches you.
So, move until it loses steam.
Or stop. And turn. And hug it too.

Evade it full. Embrace it full.
But anything between will hurt.
Already you have shoulder pain.
Perhaps, this time, embrace the spurt.

Do not sit idle. Seek no rest.
Do not be starved or overfed.
Exhaust yourself so much that sleep
Arrives before you hit the bed.

Come on, come on, come on, come on.
Outrun it now. Outrun it, please.
You have a chance to show yourself
You can be free from this disease.