Tribute

Uncle R's leopard hung upon the wall of fame,
A dry, sombre greeting for all who came.
Glassy eyes, bared fangs, reproachful stare,
Rich, spotted skin beyond compare.

What did it see, mounted head down,
Uncle R's flourish as he showed the town,
The ease with which he could hunt and kill,
Untroubled by conscience, spurred by thrill.

Or did it look deeper and observe with care,
Uncle R's desperate need to impress and scare,
Did it notice his need to appear more alive,
Magnified manifold by a dead animal's hide?

Bus Diaries

The usual
bus journey-
a seat on the left,
a book on the lap
and earphones plugged in.

Absorbing the sun
and hoping
for a good day at work,
when suddenly,
one of THOSE-
talkative aunties.

Thank God
for my convincing smiles.
She is talking,
no murmuring-
Is she on the phone?
No, she is talking-
to me.

Music volume lowered,
that's all I am
willing to spare her.
(What now?
Beta, what do you do,
How cold it is getting,
What is the time,
Where are we,
How badly he drives?)

No.
Husband. Son. Daughter.
What is THIS about?

Grim expression,
rambling tone,
no variation,
measured pauses
and a shaking of the head
at intervals.

__________rupees
That's all he earns.
But would never let me work. No.
All I wanted was to earn a bit
But what work can I do?

(Daughter studies, somewhere far
and I missed the bit about the son).

What am I worth?
I have studied a bit,
can travel on my own,
but what good am I?
Where is the work for me?
Only a couple of thousand rupees,
anything will be welcome.
We could live like before;
Even just perhaps for the fun of it,
to do SOMETHING.

and on and on
along those lines.

Not glancing at me once
but talking as it were
to my seat
as  if she expected
no unhelpful response
from a glib stranger.

I started feeling warmer,
warmer than before
when the sun was on me.
I hardly knew when the music had stopped
and a different buzz had
penetrated my pretty world.

What should I say?
SHOULD I speak at all?
To console her?
Advise her?
Assure her of her worth?
But what COULD I do?

Swiftly getting up,
she gets down at the next stop,
perhaps preparing herself
for another day of reconciliation
and many more such
monologues,
negotiating her sanity.

And I realised,
just as I was
an unwilling listener,
embarrassed, nonplussed,
she too was
unwilling to have an audience.
I was just an excuse-
for her to talk
to herself, aloud.

Not educated,
not appreciated,
but questioning her life,
willing to take chances
and pining for opportunities
she thinks she will never get.

But if I could just tell her
What was the use
of degrees and jobs,
when it didn't rid one
of the poverty and squalor
of one's own mind?

Tick-tick, tick-tock

I always wear my watch


when I go out


but take it off the moment


I step into my home


for here I have the pick of several clocks on walls and shelves


that help me keep pace with


TIME.






But it is really this one clock


that teaches me about TIME


for you see,


while the minutes's arm keeps steady course


and sometimes hurtles, sometimes drags


along the face of the dial,


the thin seconds' arm is stuck;


it moves forward, pauses and comes back


as if unsure of its authority


to show others the measure


of this portion of eternity.






So while the minutes race by or,


saunter at their leisure,


the seconds stay still,


somewhere between six and seven.






We have thought of changing the batteries


or sending the clock for repair,


but I have always hoped


that this wise little clock,


this time-burner, this time-turner


continues to show


the true faces of TIME-


the face that waits for none,


as well as


the face that changes for none.






I think with pleasure on Woolf


and brevity and diuturnity,


glad that such marvellous lessons


keep getting thrown our way


to show us how to enjoy


moments of eternity


from within


lengthy moments of the galloping finitude


that both go into an hour.






And amidst this time tracking,


there is ofcourse, the possibility


of being alarm-ed,


but we never exercise that option


so that ignored arm lies redundant,


frustrated with no use


(for we refuse to be rudely surprised by our


own planned interruptions).






it is no time machine,


no Harry Potter's device,


but like an hour glass


that keeps time


according to


how you keep it- vertical or not,


this clock shows me TIME -


human and divine;


so the minutes and the hours


are as they exist in our world


And the unmoving seconds, a measure of all those minutes and hours


in a day of Brahma...






So what do I do


when I am outside,


with my too eagerly faithful watch


forcing me to KEEP TIME


with schedules and organised routine?






I patiently bide time


and sometimes it flies by,


taking pity on me,


so that I can come back home,


sit at the dining table,


on my chair, facing the clock,


staring at the marvel,


watching how the hours and minutes


fruitlessly try to make the seconds


catch up with them.






And as I sink into oblivion,


focusing on the mental tick-tick


of the seconds's arm,


it becomes me


idle and unheeding,


as it gets urged to finish


its dinner quickly


and not sit immobile


like it has


all the TIME in the world.

When I smile

When I smile, you say


it is charming


when really, I


don't know what else to do.






I don't smile because I like you


(not that I suppose I am a simpering idiot),


nor is it a genuine one


only because


it seems to reach my eyes...






If you look closely,


you'll notice


how long it lingers and


at what I look when I smile.


Sometimes I smile because


it is embarrassing, and at other times,


I smile 'at' you


(for laughing at you is impolite


and one doesn't have to explain smiles as much...)






I always felt my face


was made to smile


at the shortest notice,


like its muscles could only relax


when they settled into a stretchy ease,


pushing my high cheek bones further up


till they hurt.






But then I also wonder


if any guy smiles half as much;


is it a pacifist gesture,


to show one's compliance


and how does it really matter,


what I feel underneath , if,


all you see is a satisfying smile?






And does it matter if I have


a sense of humour,if


I can't share the joke with you?






Yes, it does.






For,


it is not my fault


if you misread my gestures-


it is rather a mark of


your pompous presumptions


than my acquiesant submission,


like,


when you assume


I am dying to know


the names of people I'll never meet again,


or when you think


the few friends I have


are my karma and not my choice.






When you say 'wassup'


its easier to smile and let you talk


than try to begin to sum up


my present state.


When you ask my opinion


it is easier to grin my way out of it.


When you compliment,


I smile,


not only because I may not be sure


whether you meant it or not,


but because smiles do leave, sometimes,


no room for words.






Some other time I chuckle to myself,


refusing to share a private joke,


knowing it would be lost in translation,


or,


lift a corner of my lips


just to appear enigmatic


and leave you to trace it as it vanishes.


My smirk may be


a delayed reaction to


something only now realised-


so don't take it personally.






If I smile too much too often,


it is out of habit.


If I smile in response to a question,


please,


take it as a "no comments".


The fun is in interpreting,


so play the game


and draw your own conclusions.


Rest assured I can be oh so frank,


but I am just not in the mood to spoil your's.






So amidst all these manipulations


and distortions,


you wonder,


" does she really ever mean


what she smiles?"






I do;


perhaps a sad or quiet smile


is as close as I get


to show you


what I am thinking,


or a shy, slow one


tells you I am curious


and would like to know you more.






When my teeth come out,


it is often because


you are still looking


and the smile would have


otherwise frozen.


If you see a very slight smile


look at my eyes


and there, read my mind.


I am good at control


and thus can purse my lips


to hold back a thought or


a hooting laugh;


but also watch out


for when I hold back


a chortle in a smile.


Know, that camouflage is perhaps


the best form of survival.

Epiphany

What matter if


faces fall out


like crumbling pages


shunning a book past its prime.


Presences fade


like unwilling perfume


leaving traces in pity.


The tired mirror refuses to show


anything new


and every touch, every movement


is unthought of,mindless.






All of a sudden


in a moment


stripped bare,


alone, frightened, unsure, uncaring


waiting to reach home


and drown in sleep.






Rich, unexplored mental horizons


seducing into illusions


of coherence, until


once again,


the empty words,


hollow gestures and


once more,


the solitude.






I am learning


to be


with me.






Where be


the old assurances,


the certitudes, the


taken for granted


finitudes?






Pulling back from


a rushing world


and breathing its pauses;


a moment magnified


and filling one's vision


then retreating swiftly


into the crevices


of deja vus.






Like a splash of cold water


on a winter morning


jolting and refreshing,


out of a hazy slumber,


arousing and keen.






Eyes wider open and


a calm, quick heart,


looking ahead


and gazing within,


watching around and taking all in,


waiting to move,


hoping to stay aware


this time around.






Taking things slowly,


with measured pauses;


maybe, I am beginning


to like me.

Begin

What does
denying old habits
have in common with
learning to be alone?
The fear of responsibility-
your own.

When the ease of
advising others
gives away to the need for
personal choices,
it is tough to sort out
your own clamouring voices.

No blaming others
for decisions already
made for you,
instead the gumption
to stand by yourself
and  defy assumption.

Risks may not
be successes,
but atleast you'll have
the peace of honesty-
The rewards of taking
your own responsibility.

A Postcolonial Interview

"So, where are you from?"
Silence.
Where is your home,
where do you
BELONG.
Pause. Think.

There.
 In that place
where we have our own
'home',
where my parents grew up,
and want to retire,
where my huge extended family lives,
where they speak the langugae
we speak at home.
Where unknown faces are familiar,
where we know our neighbours,
visit people,
celebrate together.
Where I have a place to go to
every year.
There, where I was born.

Here
Where I have spent
most of my life,
made friends,
found others like me,
studying, discovering, adjusting.
Listening to stories of that other place,
struggling to learn their language well
while adopting the slang here.
Where my parents cling
to that other place
and defy customs here.
Where the weather
swings like a pendulum.
Where we may not know our neighbours,
but have found
friends, elsewhere.
Where I return from
annual vacations
to that other place.
Here, where I grew up.

Here, or there,
in the past
or the present,
or the blurred crossroads where
they almost meet,
or in some unseen future,
different altogether.

Or beyond that,
in that fabled land
of my ancestors,
where even my parents have not been,
but from where
we trace our stubborn roots
and family trees;
distinctions still meaningful
to classify and define,
or merely learnt by rote,
varieties like fruits!

Enough. Clarity.
" I am a Bengali from Delhi"

Stare.
*That's not what we meant at all*