MAIDS OF HONOUR

Steps in the house with a bunch of marigolds, roses or hibiscuses
puts near Mum's altar, picks the chalk, the bucket and the mug
heads for space outside the front door
washes and draws rangoli pattern
an Indian morning ritual.
A gappy smile for Padma, the neighbour's maid
both exchange their daily chitchat
hands draw beautiful rangoli designs on the floor.

9 am, Sarojini's second or third house by then,
a grin for the family members when eyes meet,
the gap of her lost front tooth an accustomed view
as the scorching sun outside in the south Indian city.
Similar chores repeated flat after flat
vessels in the sink, the rooms, the bathrooms, the kitchen slab,
the thrash binned and more.

Up and down, just as the lift of the building.
her feet get some rest when shouted for tea and breakfast
breakfast skipped, packed for her fatherless boys
hot sugary tea, her energy booster, back in the loop once more.

Round and round from one room to another,
from one house to another
as a Ferris wheel she spins till sun sets.
but. another house still left
her shack, chores need to be finished,
boys need to be fed; her treadmill does not stop.

Her daily milestone of ten thousand or twenty thousand steps or more
no smart watch to track, no one to pat and no one to share or compare with.

A relief in every Indian housewife's face,
the minute the maid rings the calling bell.
Housewife's smile warmer for the maid
than for the husband when he comes back.
The husband may earn
the lift may carry people and their bags
but she relieves the fatigue of every housewife.

In addition, the building gossip, the maids share
who bought a new car, which flat's
tenant has left or who is the whiny neighbour
and more, the topics and names change
an unpaid entertainment at all times.

Sarojini or Padma, to name a few
backbone of every Indian household,
their backbones do get tired too
but none remembers
as their motor never stops to spin.

Rajgangpur

 

City, too big a word to express it
town, preferred for the place where I grew
saw it first in arms of my dad, arrived as a two-year-old
have no memories of what I saw then
a small town tucked in Odisha, then called Orissa
a state in east India.

Memory fondly reveals the narrow road between two big ponds,
on the way to school, our rickshaw travel providing the mixed view
of lotuses and the washermen with piles of clothes.
The burial ground adjacent to the school
no one thought of its unusual location,
every time a body arrived
students seated near the window enjoyed the distraction.

The fenced roundabout on the way back home
with its two theatres, bunch of street side eateries
the taste of beetroot cutlets, my taste buds still remember
sight of the fried crispy samosas and queues at the till
the tyre shop near it and men with their tea glasses.

The railway crossing after the roundabout and the two roads jutting out
one leading to my house and the next to the big church in the huge green compound
the tubewell on the way and the tucked little ration shop stocked with sugar, rice and wheat.

Our roadside house and the medley of hawker's voices on cycles
few selling carpets, some cotton candy and roasted nuts
the veranda outside our house, where we played with friends
the well at our backyard, which my sister would always walk to jump if scolded
and be back, when I sneakily told, at my dad's behest about frogs in the well.
An anecdote as the town itself.


The other end of the city where my college lay, the packed bus stand nearby
a new road more travelled once I became an adult in my mind, the pond and the rickshaw stuffed to the back of the mind.
Eyes feast the new sights
the cloth shops, the tailors, the cosmetic store enroute to college
the Friday crowds to the mosque on the parallel road
the spicy puffed rice vendor near the college gate
where girls jostled to buy.

The single-track crossing, the cement wagons pushed by elephants
replaced by engines after.
The dusty trucks laden with cement bags
workers and cement both in one colour
a sore view,
livelihood for majority in the town.

A new part of town now,
our new house above the mill
with its white windows
where we moved in,
the vegetable market behind the house
the tiny post office facing it and muddy roads at the back
the lanes where I drove the first scooter
visits to the Shiva temple adjacent to it
and the decorated hall nearby where I got married.

The quaint little town circled
the same station again, where I bid adieu to my parents
the station now expanded, lights of which do not fuse
witnessed that ten years ago on a reunion visit.
Left Rajgangpur thirty-three years ago,
the name acquired as was a princely state during the British raj.

A town whose lanes and buildings
hold my gossip and my secrets,
whose roads and bricks saw me cry and laugh
saw me grow from a toddler to a woman
a place which has understood me and fulfilled me
more than any city I have lived till now.

IMMERSED

The pleasure of being on the beach, the calm serene sea

some kids nearby roll in sand, 

the joyous giggles of the teenage group

the tomatoes and peppers on skewers on the pit

the football coated with impressions of various pairs of sandy feet

families catch up over conversations

stretched on a mat senses soak the flavours of joy on the sands.

What is it with the sea, the sand, the fishes below and birds above?

The wide expanse, the hum of the sea, the unheard gossip of colourful fish in it

just draws me, the teens, the kids and their parents and the sweaty boys and their sandy feet

the very thought excites us all, we may not know one another

but we all understand the language of the waves

respond to the call of the sea gulls

the tickle of the tiny translucent fish in water

the aroma of happiness in the air

the sea's changing moods caught by us sometime or the other

sometimes it seems so close, the tide's reaching for the land

just when we thought it's near us, it slips far back

TIES

 I enjoy my company, but I do of chums too.

Busy in my own zone, mind scratches, reminds me to call friends, chat and text.

I dust my mind's chatter in the garbage bin along with the vegetable peels. 

I like to meet people and converse but to a point.

The tireless ring of the phone or incessant flow of the messages is a hinderance

Watch videos, pictures of friends and post likes may cheer them, but it saps me.

Talkative by nature; I call once in a while.

As I write the poem, I remember my dad's frequent bargain

of five rupees, if I sealed my lips for ten minutes as a child.

How suffocative was it for me, to be quiet back then

when to socialise was the only skill, I thought I had.

I treasure my friends too, but prioritize my time more

It's a long road, where some old ones slip by. some new ones get added.

Each friend is important; I am sum of their impressions and influences

Just because I call or meet less, does not weaken our bond.  

SETTLE

Lost, in the search for his beloved in O Henry's character of "The shadowed room"

the folded waters of the sea before me, the unruffled stack of white plastic chairs tug my attention

cheeks and fingers cool with the gulf air remind of rumbles in my stomach,

hot pumpkin soup in the flask ready to silence internal growls

my yellow pen moves fast to jot my scattered thoughts

jumpy that the receding waves of the dusk may swallow

less tensed though, than the global economies of the tariffs flung

 

the story's character unequipped to trace her in London's streets

I, unprepared to pattern my sporadic ideas

the world puzzled at the new double digits to be coughed at ports

noises in the belly impatient to wait further

the beloved dies, the hero never knows, tired flops on the bed

my ideas settle on the white plain paper, my temporary bookmark

phone calls and negotiations commence between nations

my stomach silent, pacified with the taste of the soup

each do find their own solace.

HIS PRESENCE

His mustard-coloured diary
wrinkled pages, some old receipts
mums dry-clean expenditure
his disliked spending
milk, groceries, vegetables, holidays
a glance now shows price rise

his post breakfast schedule
to jot down monthly expenses
or match to past months
or many a time to previous years amounts
an easy pastime post-retirement
then, a sermon on inflation and
his well-managedlife on savings
pension not applicable
in his private job

the cupboard's corner now imitates the dairy's outline.

The pharmacy's big blue Nivea moisturiser
a bottle permanent on his side table in his last years
his dry skin constantly hungry for the lotion
every drop a temporary relief to his flaky skin
he would agree to no other lotion
my dad a long contributor to Nivea's sales
a gene both daughters have
the same dark blue bottle,

a permanent fixture in our cosmetic space.

Spicy pickles and chutneys,
his all-time must at every meal
bottles replenished by my mum's
tasty mango and gooseberry pickles
his taste buds relished them

a morsel for me from his hand
a time I looked forward to
at mealtimes

those jars and bottles long for his touch
just like the glow on mum's face
and me for that one warm morsel.

Few objects pale to define him
he left us three years before

I see him all around
in objects touched and untouched
as it was also, he, who taught me
what an object is.

FAMILIARITY

The flying dust in the air, the screeching horns, the blaring loudspeakers

birthdays of local leaders on massive billboards at every turn

bikes and motorcycles' daredevil stunts to cut across 

auto drivers' incredible manoeuvres through blocked traffic

street hawkers' wares on commuters faces

exhaust from buses and other vehicles, the unwanted face pack

scene in every Indian metropolis or city,

yet every time I travel back to India

these accustomed visuals and muddled commotions

exude a chaotic warmth, silent senses locate a charger in the cacophony.

Night sleep adjusts to the rhythm of the ceiling fan,

a sound tucked in memory of growing years

the barks of stray dogs heighten the nocturnal harmony

The late-night TV sounds of neighbours

the slamming of lift doors, careless footstep sounds on some floors

each note, a lullaby chord, impressions tugging me to deep sleep.

Tunes of different calling bells arouse me from slumber

sounds of the caws of the morning crows, 

sometimes squeaks of different birds

I fail to identify, break my dreams.

The cooker whistles in someone's house 

sounds of slurping filter coffee in my house

eyes open to some neighbour in yogic posture on a terrace

another doing deep breathing exercises. 

Stare down from the balcony

to see morning walker's matching strides

vendors selling fresh flowers, vegetables 

sights so colourful and various, my eyes 

unable to focus on one.

Each scene so well acquainted to eyes, yet so arresting

the joy of familiarity, the pleasure of the known,

sights, smells and sounds each a part of my being, 

I am so comfortable with.