Through all my years of lighted nights,
With bulbs, and lamps, and candle flames,
I wasted all my gifts of sight
On seeing who complains, who blames.
It took a year of darkened days
Despite the moon, the stars, the sun,
To see the light in wetting eyes
Which looked at me like I’m the One.
There’s nothing much for me to write,
Except to cite my quiet delight
In having got the one I sought,
The one I hope will tie the knot.
There’s nothing much for me to say,
Except to pray, array the way
To train again my love inane
To stick, remain, come joy or pain.
A man I am of many lies:
Some litchi whites, some amla grays,
Some kaala-khatta twilight skies,
But mostly blurred like Saturdays.
A man I am of many truths:
Some whole, some floured, some multigrained,
Some chakki-pressed like working youths,
But mostly kneaded like a friend.
It’s easy in the face of death
To find the strength to counterstrike.
It’s easy with your back to wall
To push against the angry tide.
It’s easy with your final chip
To gamble all you’ve ever held.
On every step until then, though
It’s easy to be overwhelmed.
My migraine asks the Chicken why
The Walrus crossed the Rubicon.
“To meet the Carpenter,” replies
The Romaine lettuce Brutus knifed
Into the Caesar’s salad bowl.
“But kings partake of cabbages,”
The chicken’s noting from the coup,
Forgetting once the falling sky,
The mistranslated Carpenter
Is propping on his Cross to bear.
The red sea pumping to my head
Is splitting down the middle path
The OG listicler had shown
To faithful friends and sociopaths.
The dogs were first to raise alarm,
To chase the thieves in Covid masks,
To bite into their denim calves,
And make them drop their duffel bags.
The drunks were second on the scene.
They found in groaning, bleeding men
Release of stresses bottled up
And so they kicked, and fell, and kicked.
The bikers parked their bikes on road,
Blockading all the escape routes.
With helmet-visored confidence,
They tapped the road rage in reserve.
The passers-by turned standers-by.
The gamers switched to vlogger mode.
The elderly with saffron tongues
Took bets on when the cops would show.
Police arrived within the hour
With ambulances in the tow.
The thieves confessed with eagerness,
Revealed they bagged some two-three crores.
The cops then questioned witnesses
For where they saw the duffel bags,
And only answer they received
Was “Sorry, sir. I did not mark.”
When fear infects your every cell,
Retreat into your citadel,
But only for a moment’s length,
To gather all your inner strength,
To sharpen focus, deepen breath,
To mourn your passing moment’s death,
To celebrate the birth anew –
Another moment, another you –
And, with composure, saunter out
Despite the fear, despite the doubt.
She did not understand a word
Of English that I’d read to her,
But every Sunday she would come,
Entreating me to read to her.
I did not read so well back then.
I stammered, mispronounced my words.
I did not pause at commas, dots,
But still, with joy, I’d read to her.
I’d read to her my comic books,
My classwork books, my story books.
I did not know a single book
I did not want to read to her.
Her palms were made of leather then
To help her wash the thousand clothes
She wrestled with behind our well
As I began to read to her.
They say she’s hard of hearing now,
Of seeing, smelling, tasting too,
But, Misra, if she knows your touch,
Her leather lines, go, read to her.
He’s been a tailor forty years,
But only one in Gate Bazaar
Who doesn’t wear a tailored shirt,
Or tailored pant, or tailored laugh.
His multicoloured factory tees
Are well-contrasted with the jeans
He buys in black from cycle gangs
Who pilfer merch through shady means.
He’s favourite of the locals, though.
They say his tape can measure love:
When mother’s love will add an inch
And spouse’s love will shave it off.
He knows who want their pockets deep.
He knows who want their pockets small.
He knows who want their pockets hid
Inside the linings of their shawls.
The young and old, the rich and poor,
Rely on him for daintiness,
Then why he doesn’t stitch himself
A pair or two of formal dress?
The elderly in dhotis say,
About some fifty years ago
When riots happened every day
And lynchings made for popcorn show,
There was a tailor, handsome smart,
In fittest, neatest, tailored clothes,
Who stitched for MPs, MLAs,
For swearings-in and public oaths.
They say he thought he could be one
And dressed accordingly enough.
He’d often hang around their house
And do their bidding, little stuff.
One day, however, MLAs
In heat of drunken rioting
Adjudged the tailor’s ambition
Quite arrogant, disquieting.
They went into his seamster store
And ripped his collared shirt to shreds
And ripped him open alongwith,
And left the floor in flowing reds.
His little one who saw it all,
Upon their tattered bodies swore
He’ll never wear a tailored pair
And never aim beyond the store.
Arrival of this chequered guest
With specs he only wears for dress
Reminds me to beware of his
Interminable games of chess
He plays with pawns of uncles, aunts
And cousins close and far removed
And even their domestic help
And strangers in their neighborhood.
He keeps himself away for months
But come Diwali, Puja time
He shows up with tobacco teeth
And choicest fruits of winter clime
To sit and peel and chew and spit
Invented genealogies
Of ancient slights, fraternal fights
And yet unmade apologies.
He crochets up a yarn of time
Into confusing pirate knots
Of narratives that apparate
As Conan Doyle, Christie plots.
And then he waves his crochet wand
With flair of wizards masterful,
And holding knots in either hand,
Untangles with a single pull.
My parents, full of gratitude,
Declare they are so fortunate
To have him have their bullseye backs
Against the darts of envy, hate.
They shower him with sweets and praise
And tell me to be more like him.
I shut my mouth and meekly smile
With dimness of a knight on rim.
I try to see his board entire.
I know it’s but his zwischenzug –
His move between the obvious moves –
Before his queen and pair of rooks
Coordinate and capture pawns
To grab more space – ancestral land –
But then I fail in making sense
Of how he has his endgame planned.
He has no wife, no legal heirs.
He lives his chequered life alone.
And though he’s only fifty now
He’s peeing through a bladder stone.
His BP’s low, his sugar’s high,
His lungs are often out of breath,
So even if he captures all,
How does he plan to deal with death?
I see. He too is just a pawn
In hands of mighty Loneliness,
Who keeps us all engrossed in some
Interminable games of chess.
Minakhi Misra 