Minakhi Misra

When he wants to say No,
To deny you permission
To do what you really want to do,
He just says, “I won’t advise it.”
When you ask him why, he glares.
“I don’t have to explain myself.
You can do what you want.”
But if you really do what you want,
He acts like you’ve taken his tea,
Snatched it from his trembling hands
And splashed it on his trembling face.
You tire of asking why, why, why.
He never answers. Only glares.
Only grumbles. Only trembles.
That’s how he keeps you shackled up
Inside a cellar, four-by-four,
Of his narrow-minded grumpiness.

1.

“Judge a moth by its candle.”

O Rumi, I’ve become the moth
Whose candle has been fired and
Replaced by an LED bulb
That better fits the firm ethos.

2.

“Be a tree and let the dead leaves drop.”

O Rumi, I was searching me
In fallen leaves of autumns past.
I found you in my gnarly roots
Becoming rings around my being.

3.

“Be an empty page, untouched by words.”

O Rumi, what a flaw I have:
I can’t abide an empty page,
As silence scares me more than words.
I lose myself in finding use.

Corns of black pepper,
Buds of black cloves,
Cups of black coffee,
Clothes of black cotton,
Leaves of black lines
Pens of black ink –
Instruments of writing
Spell out the black words,
Dispell the black moods,
And clear my black eyes.

1.

I shooed the pigeon pair away,
Without a care to hear their words,
And back I went to Robert Frost
To read his rhyme on garden birds.

2.

I came along with pen and ink
Opened the window to the dawn,
And found the Muse in pigeon eyes
That glared at me ‘fore moving on.

3.

I scrubbed the floor off pigeon egg,
Which Humpty-Dumptied from the roof,
And wondered if the mother bird
Would grieve aloud or stay aloof.

If I get another ping from you
Where all you do is crib and cry,
I’ll block your number, permanent,
So don’t you even think to try.

You think I’m your agony aunt?
Just sitting here to hear your woes?
I don’t care if your boss is bad.
I don’t care if your food is gross.

It happens every time you have
Two options, which are both so bad,
Or both so good, you cannot choose
And run to me like I’m your Dad.

Just take your own decisions, please.
I’m slammed with many on my plate,
Against an old adversary
Whose options come with loaded fate.

It cocks a gun at me and asks
“Which option do you like today?”
It matters not which one I pick.
It pulls the trigger anyway.

It’s not that your problem is small.
I know it’s big inside your head.
I’m saying it’s your own to fix.
So, let me deal with mine instead.

You all who wish to save my soul,
Infecting me with sanity,
I stand here vaccinated to
Your toxic positivity.

You send your love in fancy dress
Of wrapped up gifts from Amazon.
I can’t enact your fairy tale
And there pretend to be your One.

Your chocolate hug and rosé kiss
And promised flow of teddy treats
Are weak proposals lost on me:
I’ve given up all processed sweets.

The gravel of my gnashing teeth
Has skinned the fore-end of my tongue
For I’m a bitter biting man
Inside a bag of sandy dung.

For many months, I mistook the pigeons’ cooing
For her incessant under-the-breath grumbling
That had been a source of widowed white noise
Through my Cartoon Network afternoons.
I now leave a little bowl of water for them
To drink from, to play with, to spill over,
Like she had done in those last few weeks
When she had become the quiet kid,
And I the garrulous grandmother.

We feed the departed when we feed crows,
She had said, not knowing she would be alive
In the simple home-making gootergoo
Of portly pigeons that dipped their plumage
Every evening in the smoky haze
Hovering over the cremation grounds,
Above the sooty patches of ash and cinder,
Left behind by the departing souls
Skyrocketing into their judged heavens.

Is it any wonder when her garlanded photo
Is overlaid by ghostly grumbling pigeons
When the morning rays from the skylight
Hit obliquely across the glass frame?

Why do you think it’s okay
To take my time for granted?
I value your attention.
And all I’ve ever wanted
Is for you to value mine.
How difficult is that?
If you won’t give an answer,
Don’t say you will get back.
Don’t beat around the bushes
Like lawyers prevaricate
When they don’t like an offer,
But won’t tell it to your face.
Don’t leave me in the dark here.
Both yay and nay are fine.
Just tell me now, if ever,
Will you be my valentine?

The art of letting feelings go
Begins with losing all you know.
For what you know is dear to you.
And dearness is a feeling too.
This game is not a finite game.
Your every moment is the same.
Your feeling comes, you feel it grow.
Observe it now and let it go.
Your feeling comes, you feel it stay.
Observe it here, then peel away.
Your feeling comes, you feel it is.
Observe it so and stay in peace.
Your feeling comes… you get the drift?
Accept the feeling as a gift.

Again I struggle with ink today.
At the paper blank, I blink today.

With the streak at stake, about to break,
I find myself at the brink today.

The street’s so quiet, muse on diet,
I am on my own, I think, today.

In form I trust, for write I must:
Some ghazal couplets I link today.

These muddy lines, like spilled over wines,
To my shamelessness, I drink today.

Do you hear the scare? “Misra, beware!
Your words are going to stink today.”