Morning Walk

Dead kitten at the turn

between street no. 6 and 8

who will pick it up

not me, not me,

thank fuck it doesn't have to be,

i'm glad it's someone else's job

even if they are probably not paid enough for it

will they tell their kid

picked a dead kitten off the road today

matted red fur around its neck like

a sign of belonging

man not wearing mask

another man not wearing mask

who are these idiots

cross the road

assume everyone is an idiot

weird smell from that tank

better stay on this side of the road

jump over the gadda just so

lady with pretty jasmine in hair

but no mask do you know you're going to die

you won't see the pachagotla next year

and serves you right

iron gate open ok good how many men today

oh look another woman but no she's done 

maybe if I come earlier

Maali-man,thanks for the stink eye

same to you, i don't feel sorry for your

dark roasted coffee hands and round (glaring) eyes

behind your soda-buddi glasses

what would it take to die

you'd think it'd be easier in a pandemic

no, you're not going to figure out my boobsize

under this extra loose sweatshirt uncle

ek paav grave mein, but i guess it's just habit or something

uncle, i hope you trip and break your ankle

i wonder if the kitten will still be there

was it a dog a car

i should take off the earphones and listen to nature

or something but i can't be bothered

why not silly love songs

ummeed par to duniya kaayam hai

will the kitten still be there

the nausea is because you haven't exercised in two years

get over it you wuss

uncle i swear i will break your head with that rock

pregnant lady without mask i wish for your insouciance

to be passed to your progeny 

may they live in a better world

whom am i kidding 

how dare you bring a child into this shitstain

time to go back

will the kitten be there

it is not

oh good

thank fuck it's not my job 

couldn't the person whose job it was

have done it earlier

what if I got a fern

tomorrow might be better

i mean what are the odds of 

two dead kittens

Today I saw a Sparrow

Today I saw a sparrow-

a sparrow!

and then another!

and said to myself, huh

would you look at that?

'cause it has been an aeon

since I saw one close enough

that I could tell it had that

unimpressed look that all birds give you

right before they swerve straight in the

direction of your eyeballs

beady-eyed, sharp-beaked-

have I mentioned I hate birds?

I do,

I do.

I'm not going to let an apocalypse change that.

How to Deal with Everything

by Those Who Know

(and make sure to tell you so )

in neatly ordered lists :

·       Learn something new

·       Appreciate nature

·       Spend time with the ones you love

Even if they're bits of binary

packed into-

fuck if I know.

Another thing that the apocalypse won't change-

the profound blissfulness of my ignorance

of things great and small-invisible-

-like that damn virus-

its poky bits-

no, I refuse to say

protein spikes made of amino acids

-poky bits is good enough for me-

the parts that we're so busy

trying to break down

disintegrate,

obliterate

sanitize

the poky bits are a song, you guys,

and it takes

one hundred and five minutes and forty-eight seconds

of your (very) mortal time.

its music-

lilting, uneven, kind of boring

to be honest-

anyway-

having been translated,

it’s not any more knowable-

not to me, at least,

still secure in my un-knowing-

and I wonder-

I wonder-

if those forty-eight seconds

are what leave you gasping on a hospital bed

your breath nothing like music

and I wonder –

I wonder-

what the music sounds like

when we break it down

with our weapons of purity-

Is it-

a sudden silence

or a dissonance stretched out

and out and out and out,

un-listenable, un-bearable

and then, at last,  the quiet.

It might have all been said before, and better.
Now, the moon waits, patiently,
for darkness to steal over the tree tops,
hushing the new leaves,
and a lone star sparkles to the north.
A breath on the window pane,
like a crack in glass
fading away in seconds-
Even the cold denies me.

For Asifa. 

I wish I had never heard her name. 

Maybe, in a better world

I would have, anyway. 

Maybe, then, it would have been breathed

in awe, in wonder, in pride-

maybe. 

The odds are against it, though. 

I rather think-

she would've grown up ordinary-

an indifferent education,if any,

jobs that paid for the gas

and energy saving electric bulbs,

and because this better world

is still the same world

maybe a husband to cook meals for

and children's noses to wipe snot from

and the occasional quiet moment

of looking up at the stars

and thinking

what if

an ordinary life

the best odds offered

to any of us-

- I wish I hadn't seen her eyes

brighter than anything in that photograph,

even her purple kurta with the yellow flowers-

I wish I had never heard her name.

Today, everything in the world feels like
a reproof
Two mynahs sit motionless on a wall
Two pigeons hop on the grass
Two squirrels chase each other across a roof
A pair of moths wander into my kitchen.

I dreamt of you last night.

There's a universe in which
we are allowed a different ending,
where our hands meet for a brief, sweet minute
palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss
where I watch you watching me
where my tongue comes unstuck
to say,
give me my sin again.

How My Mother Showed Her Love

How my mother showed her love

Well, mostly, she didn't.
I mean, she didn't bake me a cake
for my birthday with pretty pink and white
frosting, and candles stuck on top
like all the other girls got
(she didn't know how to, and
in any case, we didn't have an oven)
She didn't polish my school shoes
Or make sure my homework was done.
If my uniform wasn't ironed,
she said, well, you should have kept it
with the clothes for the dhobi
why didn't you,
and let me go to school with a crumpled shirt.

She didn't kiss me goodnight.
I don't recall a hug until that day
when I put my arms around her
one day in the kitchen,
just like that, I said,
when she asked me what
I thought I was doing
that was when I was
fifteen, and spent most of my days
hiding from her
and the world
so I guess the surprise was warranted
My mother never hugged me she said
in later years, when I would force-hug her
and complain about how she never
initiated contact

tell me the truth I said once
I'm adopted aren't I?
she got this-expression- on her face,
snorted, and said, don't you have
anything else to do
Later I found a diary
where she'd scrawled-
in the manner of one crossing off
an item on a to-do list-
Delivered baby girl 4.20 pm
or maybe it was to make it real to her
that the red puny crying thing
with a bush of hair
was, in fact, hers.

When I was six
competitive motherhood caused her enough anxiety
that she told my father
I don't think she reads enough
though by that time I was reading
the entire Gospel of Matthew King James Version aloud
without messing the thees and thines,
curling my tongue around the words
Verily I say unto thee

So my father trusted the Indian Postal Service
to deliver to me a package of books- ten books!-TEN-
a glorious number-an unimaginably large number-
it took three months to arrive-
I remember the green paper packaging tearing under the scissors
I took to it- no, my mother, wasn't the kind
who stopped her child from wielding sharp instruments-

And when I was nine, she would
borrow books for me from the library
books that I had no real right yet to read
because I was only a child
but my mother didn't particularly care
because it kept me quiet and occupied
on the evenings when she wanted
to do nothing more than curl up
with a book herself
in our tiny flat that had two rooms
and no tv then, just an old radio,
a peace would reign till it was time
for me to eat whatever it was she had made-
bhindi, usually, because that was the only thing
I would eat
and I think back now on how tired she must have got
eating the same thing every day-


Once when I was so ill that I needed to be admitted
in a hospital with a needle shoved in my arm
she left me with a family friend
because she had to go to work that day
and nobody would give her a day off
to be with her sick child
when she came back that day
she put her hand on my brow and said
are you okay
and I said yes
and she said okay
and then sat in the chair next to me
and pulled out a book to read
while I pretended to talk to the faces in the white ceiling

another time I woke up in the morning
with my throat hurting and my face puffed up
and she laughed and said, you look like a frog
and then, as an afterthought, we better go to the doctor

I knew what sex was before she told me-
her voice dry and business like,
a bit impatient, as though she had something else to do,
and she probably did,
but she taught me new words
vagina and penis
I had no idea until then, even though I'd already had
an (admittedly) theoretical understanding of what an orgasm was
it involved lots of kissing and perhaps shoving into walls
her hair spread over the pillow, his hands grabbing her hips-his mouth on her breasts-
but- penis and vagina- that felt- simpler
and also- boring?- surely, she was-wrong-

When I was almost sixteen I told her
I wanted to wax my legs and hands
I was already, then, beginning to feel
unfeminine (unfuckable)
the rules were changing so fast around me
like one day my hips suddenly had curves
but my breasts remained flat
and I didn't know much,
but I knew that hair on legs
was considered
not acceptable
-so- waxing-
my mother laughed incredulously-
she'd never waxed any part of herself-
where, she said, did you get this idea
and then, more sharply,
You look fine-
but of course, I knew the truth already-
I didn't look fine (fuckable)-
but that was that-
I had to try and convince myself
that smartness was a (fuckable) quality-
that worked as well as you'd imagine
in the years just after Aishwarya Rai
had won Miss World
and Pamela Anderson was still
Somebody Hot


On the day I started my tenth class board exams
she asked, as we walked to school,
did you study
as though it had suddenly occurred to her
that this might have some relevance
yes, I lied
and she nodded

I don't think she ever knew when I was
lying to her
I don't think she ever expected it-
she never
laid a trap
to find me out-
She'd never, in all the time I'd known her-lied
even when it would have been better for her to-

but she had one of those faces
that showed every emotion,
requiring no translation-
like the time she'd gotten a fancy hair style-
her lovely,long hair, shortened to just over her shoulders-
and my aunt walked into a roomful of people
gathered for a wedding and said-loudly-
What have you done with your hair-
my mother went crimson from embarassment-
the colour of her rich magenta sari-


My mother let me choose my own clothes
from when I was eight:
when a cousin asked about it, she said, vaguely,
It's easier that way.

When I was seventeen, she let me buy
the most expensive pair of shoes
anybody in my family had ever owned.


When I was fifteen I told her I was going for a movie
with my friends.
Okay, she said, but be back by eight.
When I came back at 8.15, she said,
what did we buy you that watch for.

Is that what you're wearing she'd ask
Just as I had one foot out the door,
and then go back to whatever she was doing.

When I was nine, an older friend picked up a book
I was reading and quoted
Bess goes on a blind date- she stopped-
looked at me, and then at my mother-
and asked- do you know what a blind date is-
Sure, I said, Bess doesn't know whom she's going to meet-
My mother said, oh, that's all, ok.
And then perhaps remembering
that she was supposed to set the rules-
Are you sure you should be reading this?
I shrugged, it isn't one of the good ones anyway,
the mystery isn't that good-

These days -some days- she tells me
I never looked after you properly
Like all the others did
I should have-

And I ask, half joking, half scared
I turned out ok, didn't I?
Yes, mostly, she says,
with half a smile.
So I put my arms around her,
because it doesn't occur to her
that we're having a Moment,
and after a half minute she says, hopefully,
is this enough?

Hungry

There's this bit
between when you've
swallowed
your meal, the tastes
still fresh in your mouth
your synapses still fried
from sensation
hot, sweet, salt,sour, cold
that bit where you know
you're done
but you aren't
because something in you
is still hungry:
that bit when you want
to gorge on everything
that looks like anything
that will fill you up. 

The Dreaming Season

He's beautiful,
his dark skin gleaming,
his green eyes, and forked tongue.
My dress sticks to my back, and the
scorched earth grass prickles
beneath my feet, the sky an endless blue.
He twines around me, a cold band
where our skins touch.
Out on the ridge, a bush burns.

~

I clutch him to my chest,
my own, body of my body,
flesh of my flesh:
wrinkled skin smoothing out
grey hair turning brown
there's a word for this
I think, but it dances on the
periphery
I never wanted this I think
but it's here
now what now what
is the word
I know it

~

In the not quite light
I pick my way across the litter
to the shop
with a tattered yellow paper menu
tacked to the wall
come with me she says
and grabs my hand
I don't know who you are
I stammer
don't you she asks
her teeth gleaming
in the grey light
as she leads me on
Her friends stare
from across the table
It's not what you think
I say
I'm sorry I'm not
She holds my hand
I'll be back I say
I need some tea
I'll leave my bag here
is that ok
sure she says
and turns away
her lips are red
like the flowers on her dress
the boy selling the tea
says five rupees
but I have no coins
that's okay he says
there's time to pay
later
when I walk back
she's gone,
they're gone,
so is my bag
with everything I am
in it. 

Badlands

Don't enter the badlands

in the badlands, (they tell you)
tenderness will crawl under your skin
and stay there
pricking from the inside
until you're just one
mass of aching flesh
and then, when it gets
so much, too much
that anything would be better
than this pain,
then (they tell you)

you'll take a knife
and attempt to pare
to the bone
and the blood,
there will be so much,
like a river
like an ocean
like the sky

and is that (they whisper)
what you want

is that
what you want

to let your lifeblood
soak a land
that will never bloom

is that
what you'll do

when you enter
the badlands.

Approaching Equinox

There wasn't a winter this year-

seasons out of whack-
surely a portent-

but the birds come to the lake yet-

long necks bent, or wings spread,

one or two look contemplative,

perched in the distance:

what do birds think about, anyway?

Mold on my walls-

and other things-

other wonderful, weird things

that deserve investigation-

or fixing (says my father's voice

careful, pragmatic)-

I have no time to fix

anything

these fissures will remain

while I learn to take

the easiest routes

leap over, walk around,

walk along-

there's a darkness in you

she says, one evening-

not a presence, 

but an absence,

I think, but do not say-

and so it goes-

the sickle moon grows full once more

and winter shows up then-

briefly, a last hopeless stand

against a destiny

made for tilting toward the sun. 

Fig Tree

And everything has a season,
they tell me,
and everything has its time
the leaves, and the fruit, and the flowers,
the soil, the sky, the wine.

And death has no dominion,
they tell me,
not on earth nor in heaven above:
I watch the year in its turning
the worm and the rose, in their place;
I see the fig tree, withered - still standing-
I see it renewed,in hope, in love.

Funeral

I watch you
laid in the ground
your skin mottled
and your cheeks
hollowed
and I remember your
intelligence
(and your anger)
fierce, sharp,
your obscure humour-
a difficult man
says your eldest,
while the younger
hides her eyes;
you are no longer
suffering
or perhaps you are
but we no longer
have to bear it
with you
and that is a
kind of freedom
too.

Ghost

I never dreamt of you
those days when I loved you
so helplessly, so hopelessly
my waking hours
imprisoned in ache
but my dreams, oh,
my dreams were free.

But now, you come to me,
your crooked smile,
your awkward limbs,
whispering,
soon, love, soon. 

The Opposite Of

I watch you forget me
give me away in tiny pieces
how I like my tea,
whether I've read this book-
the opposite of
how we started
collecting each other,
careful hands and greedy eyes.

Now, the opened fist,
the perfunctory nod
the distracted eyes-

so forgive me then,
my own cruelties-
the withheld word,
the hand not taken,
the silent ending. 

The dark deepens quicker these days-
fall is finally here- tendrils of wind
through the whoosh of leaves-
the trees seem reluctant
to shed summer yet-

Yesterday, I walked a million miles
just to stay still-
tonight: the world rushes by
in this, the amber moment-
through the window of leaves
the moon, cradled gold,
betwixt the satellite dish
and wide open sky.

Afterward

There was what came after:
the unraveling of each thread,
the anger, the guilt, the sorrow-
kite strings let go
into the sky and wind and water-
my hands felt-
lighter.

And then the hardest:
the remaking,
choosing new threads,
finding the eye of the needle,
with shaking hands
and blinded eyes:
you don't get to choose a pattern
you have to go where
the threads take you-
the ones left still,
because, despite,
love and memory and
the hardest words:
not sorry, or it's ok,
but look at me,
and looking, stay,
and this isn't what you thought
you'd get, this wasn't how
it was supposed to be,
but something emerges,
through warp and weft,
woven now, renewed,free.


-> For N, who loves quilts, and who keeps my heart. 

और बता

Sometimes I think
that all I've learnt
in these thirty years
is different ways of saying
goodbye.

Great catching up,
or good to see you
how's the wife
or the boss
are you still in-
ah, yes, of course,
you mentioned that, I think,
but I forgot-

or the ones that require
a heart pressed by stone,
the clean break, the reset bone-
what didn't kill you
made you stronger
and you survived,
just a little older-


and then that other-
in silence left,
but there's the space
that speaks instead
the outstretched hand,
the empty bed.

-> For S, who gave me a title (and a poem).

Jerusalem

"..and it's brilliance was like that of a very precious jewel.....the city of pure gold, as pure as glass." (The Book of Revelations/ Chapter 21)

Yes, but-
Consider this-
a pavement of patchwork hearts
trod by feet that leave bloodied prints
because the walk's been all uphill,
all the time, and 
as they walk past pillars of tears
holding up roofs of desperate prayers
that rise higher, and higher
farther than their eyes can see,
they bow their heads, hands trembling,
their parched lips stung by words 
of an ever reckless song,
and still they walk to the cathedral

singing. 

Substitute

A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river
                        but then he’s still left
with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away
                                                      but then he’s still left with his hands.

(Richard Siken/ Boot Theory)





I don't get a river-
instead, there's the ceramic white
of the bathtub, two sachets of bath salts
that don't bubble, and a bottle of shower gel
that does, rising up as I sink into
the water that's just the perfect temperature
because I'm good at this kind of thing:
the precisely calculated minute,
knowing the difference between enough
and too much, and how pleasure tips
so easily into its opposite
and I'm in the habit of watching
for the line.

So, no river,
nothing deep enough for drowning,
no swift current to carry away
the things I do not wish to keep
but this will do,
enough, but not too much,
or perhaps too much
on another day, but not today;
I buy myself an indulgence-
everything else will keep-
for now, I attempt weightlessness,
in the face of gravity
and the fact of my hands.

Neon blue

This city is the secret
You whisper to yourself
Remember when-
Remember you-
then, when,
once before,
now again,
this is not your year
it never will be
you suspect
but will not admit
to anywhere
but here,
the concrete and glass,
this neon night
hot and still
like the ones before
and the ones to come.

//Title from the song "Neon Blue"