Ode to Her Legs
OK, before your eyes start glinting
And your mouth registers the curve of a smile,
Let me tell you it’s not that kind of poem---
The kind that begins innocuously at the ankles,
Pirouettes around a taut yet supple calf
To boldly expose the thunder of thighs.
For one thing, this is not Marilyn Monroe airing
Her crotch on a sultry New York night.
Nor Angie Dickinson, that faded poster girl, serving up
Her most celebrated parts.
Neither is this a Broadway line-up of flesh disguised
In frills, feathers, lace—the legs, one mass entity propelled
By the music. No, these are not baton-twirling legs,
Ballerina legs, ice-skating legs or trapeze-artist legs!
These legs are not airborne, leaping off
A diving board to pierce the water like an arrow.
Though having said that, the legs I sing
Are classic too. And graceful, and as daring
As those other beauties born to perform.
With one difference. Her legs work unseen, out of public view.
At this point in the poem we take an eastward leap.
Where she comes from, legs are the least
Extolled part of the body, living a secret life
Cool and dark, veiled in silk or cotton, blooming
Incognito. But forget the legs for a moment.
We were never Victorian out there pinning our lust
On the flash of an ankle or heave of bosom.
We cultivated other themes. Consider the epic legacy of eyes.
Look how much work they do: they simmer and blaze, look shyly
Away or straight through
Your intentions, leaving you puzzled or wounded.
The real place of mystery is
The hair—plain or adorned—thick, black, lustrous, fragrant,
Bound by years of grooming rituals.
For centuries, hair has driven poets to drink, loosening
Their metaphors, confounding their logic.
Equally enigmatic is that midriff space between
Blouse and sari—glistening with beads of sweat--
That shapely curve of waist swiveling in the light
Of day. With so much to adore who misses the legs?
Ah, the legs. Back to those legs.
Having made the shift, perhaps you are now ready
To understand why it is not that kind of poem.
For not being seen or displaying their art in public,
Those legs are no less unique. They come equipped
With power and purpose. Think of them as pillars
That hold your world upright, that keep your days
In order. Everywhere—behind counters, desks,
Hospitals, mills, fields, factory floors;
In sweatshops, bazaars, stores, and offices—a woman
Is standing, waiting or running, her legs clocking
Miles in silence. When everyone else is off-duty
Her feet are still plodding. When there is no one else
To count on, she unfailingly answers
Your call. As for being bone-weary, you have no idea
What she endures. So I say to the men
(And some expensive, pampered women):
Recognize the wonder of those legs, ignore them
At your peril. Because, when those legs fail,
You will have nothing to stand on.
To the husbands, I say:
Give those legs the respect they deserve. Look at those
Feet in amazement—how small and tough the heel,
The skin ready to crack. The toes, though shy,
Will stay the course; the ankles are so slender
For the burden they carry; knees, the pivot
Of your universe. So let her stretch out and place her feet
In your hands. Every day. After all, she has lavished
Attention and care, devotedly tending your feet every night
Which you have taken as your birthright
Citing scripture and myth in your defense.
Well, here is your service manual: stroke and press those legs
All the way up where the muscles knot
And veins break out and throb. Knead
The flesh firmly, gently, to draw out the day’s
Weariness out of the body. Now work downwards
Soothing the ache with fingertips as if the feet
Had been long lost and just found. Cherish them
As if those legs were the most precious and prized
Of your belongings; as if you were under oath
To God to keep your holy promises. It may turn out
That Heaven lies underneath a woman’s feet.
Honor them as if they were—but they are--
Your beloved’s legs.
OK, before your eyes start glinting
And your mouth registers the curve of a smile,
Let me tell you it’s not that kind of poem---
The kind that begins innocuously at the ankles,
Pirouettes around a taut yet supple calf
To boldly expose the thunder of thighs.
For one thing, this is not Marilyn Monroe airing
Her crotch on a sultry New York night.
Nor Angie Dickinson, that faded poster girl, serving up
Her most celebrated parts.
Neither is this a Broadway line-up of flesh disguised
In frills, feathers, lace—the legs, one mass entity propelled
By the music. No, these are not baton-twirling legs,
Ballerina legs, ice-skating legs or trapeze-artist legs!
These legs are not airborne, leaping off
A diving board to pierce the water like an arrow.
Though having said that, the legs I sing
Are classic too. And graceful, and as daring
As those other beauties born to perform.
With one difference. Her legs work unseen, out of public view.
At this point in the poem we take an eastward leap.
Where she comes from, legs are the least
Extolled part of the body, living a secret life
Cool and dark, veiled in silk or cotton, blooming
Incognito. But forget the legs for a moment.
We were never Victorian out there pinning our lust
On the flash of an ankle or heave of bosom.
We cultivated other themes. Consider the epic legacy of eyes.
Look how much work they do: they simmer and blaze, look shyly
Away or straight through
Your intentions, leaving you puzzled or wounded.
The real place of mystery is
The hair—plain or adorned—thick, black, lustrous, fragrant,
Bound by years of grooming rituals.
For centuries, hair has driven poets to drink, loosening
Their metaphors, confounding their logic.
Equally enigmatic is that midriff space between
Blouse and sari—glistening with beads of sweat--
That shapely curve of waist swiveling in the light
Of day. With so much to adore who misses the legs?
Ah, the legs. Back to those legs.
Having made the shift, perhaps you are now ready
To understand why it is not that kind of poem.
For not being seen or displaying their art in public,
Those legs are no less unique. They come equipped
With power and purpose. Think of them as pillars
That hold your world upright, that keep your days
In order. Everywhere—behind counters, desks,
Hospitals, mills, fields, factory floors;
In sweatshops, bazaars, stores, and offices—a woman
Is standing, waiting or running, her legs clocking
Miles in silence. When everyone else is off-duty
Her feet are still plodding. When there is no one else
To count on, she unfailingly answers
Your call. As for being bone-weary, you have no idea
What she endures. So I say to the men
(And some expensive, pampered women):
Recognize the wonder of those legs, ignore them
At your peril. Because, when those legs fail,
You will have nothing to stand on.
To the husbands, I say:
Give those legs the respect they deserve. Look at those
Feet in amazement—how small and tough the heel,
The skin ready to crack. The toes, though shy,
Will stay the course; the ankles are so slender
For the burden they carry; knees, the pivot
Of your universe. So let her stretch out and place her feet
In your hands. Every day. After all, she has lavished
Attention and care, devotedly tending your feet every night
Which you have taken as your birthright
Citing scripture and myth in your defense.
Well, here is your service manual: stroke and press those legs
All the way up where the muscles knot
And veins break out and throb. Knead
The flesh firmly, gently, to draw out the day’s
Weariness out of the body. Now work downwards
Soothing the ache with fingertips as if the feet
Had been long lost and just found. Cherish them
As if those legs were the most precious and prized
Of your belongings; as if you were under oath
To God to keep your holy promises. It may turn out
That Heaven lies underneath a woman’s feet.
Honor them as if they were—but they are--
Your beloved’s legs.
EXHIBIT A
The painter of landscapes invites us to the gallery
To gaze at cliffs wrapped in mist.
Or waterfalls starting in trickles rushing down glossy
Slopes into riverbeds banked with moss.
Or a lush, tropical forest sold to us as Eden --
Perfect in its promise, air sweetened, lurking beasts
Declawed, no signs of scuffle.
Even fragrant orchards and cultivated fields recede
To far horizons that stay still or creep away from turmoil
Outside the frame. The figure of a wanderer
Or recluse, modestly miniature, drifts into the scene
Standing there to tell us – look, against this grand design,
I am nothing. Backdrop is all the drama there is
To be found here. We buy this fiction
And make out of it a window on our wall.
EXHIBIT B
Hiroshige* got it right.
Not that he ever disclaimed his civil servant status.
Not that he spurned the privilege of his ancestral
Samurai crest. Not that he knocked at castle gates
Or ever saw the inside of a thatched hut.
Not that he followed the tracks of palanquin-bearers
Or ran in the wake of postal runners, or limped alongside
Ponies laden with goods. Not that he broke his back
With paddy planters standing ankle-deep in flooded fields,
Or sweated with the horse groomers or, with calloused palms,
Pulled the nets of the fish-haulers. Not that he sang
With itinerant musicians or dallied with the dancers. Not that he
Haunted the dens of prostitutes or floated in a fog of opium.
But he was everywhere and he watched. He rode
Up and down the highway. He stared long and hard
At the landscape. And the landscape looked back offering
Cobalt skies, steep mountain passes on cliff sides cut
Like gems; the scent of pine and plum trees, soggy trails,
And crunchy gravel; the ripples of streams, shallow
Ferries, and white boat sails billowing like giant lampshades.
Even the wind played along bending grass and blowing off hats.
The landscape stretched out and leaned back content.
The artist composed, recreating the sturdiness of bodies
And the slack of muscle; the frown of worry and the easy laughter;
The hurled syllables of quarrels, and the slump of regret.
Sometimes, he may have slept at the inns and slurped tea
At the tea stalls, sizing up Sumo wrestlers in transit. In town,
He lingered on the bridges to hear bazaar gossip,
Got drenched in an unexpected downpour and went home
To change into a dry, silk kimono. Outside, the wind howled,
The rain beat in slanted brushstrokes, prying loose
Weeping mudslides. The inky sky invaded his dreams.
The next morning, there he was again, looking. He was
Everywhere. He missed nothing.
Hiroshige (1795 – 1858), a Japanese artist, is best known for
53 Stages of the Tokaido, a series of color woodblock prints first exhibited in 1832.
Against a backdrop of natural and constructed landscape, Hiroshige records the sights and activities on the pilgrim route between Edo and Kyoto.
EXHIBIT C
I could stride into the Paradise Travel brochure,
Disembark at this picture-perfect port,
Get lost in that restored colonial mansion,
Climb up the winding path to a cottage
On the ledge. I could be happy, briefly, here
Or elsewhere. After a night in the company
Of restless shadows, swim in the clear waters,
Dry off in the sun, sip chai in the veranda
And watch daylight rinse the mountains blue.
I could keep at bay the sound
Of bones crushed under the cobblestones, or
Blood bubbling out of the backyard well. Step
Back from the white paint smoothing over
The smear of suicide, tune out
The screams lodged in the rafters.
If ancient sweat sucked out of the soil
Into grapevines could be distilled out
Of this glass I raise, I could risk
Being content, briefly, then find my way
Home to a recurrent nightmare.
The painter of landscapes invites us to the gallery
To gaze at cliffs wrapped in mist.
Or waterfalls starting in trickles rushing down glossy
Slopes into riverbeds banked with moss.
Or a lush, tropical forest sold to us as Eden --
Perfect in its promise, air sweetened, lurking beasts
Declawed, no signs of scuffle.
Even fragrant orchards and cultivated fields recede
To far horizons that stay still or creep away from turmoil
Outside the frame. The figure of a wanderer
Or recluse, modestly miniature, drifts into the scene
Standing there to tell us – look, against this grand design,
I am nothing. Backdrop is all the drama there is
To be found here. We buy this fiction
And make out of it a window on our wall.
EXHIBIT B
Hiroshige* got it right.
Not that he ever disclaimed his civil servant status.
Not that he spurned the privilege of his ancestral
Samurai crest. Not that he knocked at castle gates
Or ever saw the inside of a thatched hut.
Not that he followed the tracks of palanquin-bearers
Or ran in the wake of postal runners, or limped alongside
Ponies laden with goods. Not that he broke his back
With paddy planters standing ankle-deep in flooded fields,
Or sweated with the horse groomers or, with calloused palms,
Pulled the nets of the fish-haulers. Not that he sang
With itinerant musicians or dallied with the dancers. Not that he
Haunted the dens of prostitutes or floated in a fog of opium.
But he was everywhere and he watched. He rode
Up and down the highway. He stared long and hard
At the landscape. And the landscape looked back offering
Cobalt skies, steep mountain passes on cliff sides cut
Like gems; the scent of pine and plum trees, soggy trails,
And crunchy gravel; the ripples of streams, shallow
Ferries, and white boat sails billowing like giant lampshades.
Even the wind played along bending grass and blowing off hats.
The landscape stretched out and leaned back content.
The artist composed, recreating the sturdiness of bodies
And the slack of muscle; the frown of worry and the easy laughter;
The hurled syllables of quarrels, and the slump of regret.
Sometimes, he may have slept at the inns and slurped tea
At the tea stalls, sizing up Sumo wrestlers in transit. In town,
He lingered on the bridges to hear bazaar gossip,
Got drenched in an unexpected downpour and went home
To change into a dry, silk kimono. Outside, the wind howled,
The rain beat in slanted brushstrokes, prying loose
Weeping mudslides. The inky sky invaded his dreams.
The next morning, there he was again, looking. He was
Everywhere. He missed nothing.
Hiroshige (1795 – 1858), a Japanese artist, is best known for
53 Stages of the Tokaido, a series of color woodblock prints first exhibited in 1832.
Against a backdrop of natural and constructed landscape, Hiroshige records the sights and activities on the pilgrim route between Edo and Kyoto.
EXHIBIT C
I could stride into the Paradise Travel brochure,
Disembark at this picture-perfect port,
Get lost in that restored colonial mansion,
Climb up the winding path to a cottage
On the ledge. I could be happy, briefly, here
Or elsewhere. After a night in the company
Of restless shadows, swim in the clear waters,
Dry off in the sun, sip chai in the veranda
And watch daylight rinse the mountains blue.
I could keep at bay the sound
Of bones crushed under the cobblestones, or
Blood bubbling out of the backyard well. Step
Back from the white paint smoothing over
The smear of suicide, tune out
The screams lodged in the rafters.
If ancient sweat sucked out of the soil
Into grapevines could be distilled out
Of this glass I raise, I could risk
Being content, briefly, then find my way
Home to a recurrent nightmare.
Song of the Makeover
What good is this place, this other world,
Where the heart is ill at ease,
Where travelers reaching their destination
Discover they are lost. An error of navigation,
A trick of perception, forces two realities
Into a single space: when one is acted out
The other is on the blink. When the price
Of staying equals the penalty of leaving,
I turn full circle, renewing the past
Making a fresh start. All stories, heavy with promise,
Use two tongues or more. At home nowhere, I hop
On and off, most at ease in a state of passage.
Many times I have made the journey back
Then crossed over again to this shore. I arrive,
But my gaze lags behind, slow to make the shift.
When I’m under close scrutiny, my attention is sure
To be focused elsewhere. Here I am leading
Someone else’s life, while over there another face
Goes by my name. I take steady steps, but my heart
Keeps missing a beat. When I listen to the voice within,
Someone else interrupts me. I peer sideways to see
Whose shadow doubles behind me. The road long abandoned
Cannot account for my absence; the years ahead
Will not guarantee if another will seek refuge in my guise.
In the interim, I cannot tell which half of my face
I am wearing. As bold as my spirit is,
I cannot seem to quell a queasy feeling
In the gut. The truth is, I am neither fully here
Nor there. Never will be. So be it.
I am not on the slippery edge of some breath-taking
Rescue but in the middle of my stride,
Measuring out the extent of this madeover life.
What good is this place, this other world,
Where the heart is ill at ease,
Where travelers reaching their destination
Discover they are lost. An error of navigation,
A trick of perception, forces two realities
Into a single space: when one is acted out
The other is on the blink. When the price
Of staying equals the penalty of leaving,
I turn full circle, renewing the past
Making a fresh start. All stories, heavy with promise,
Use two tongues or more. At home nowhere, I hop
On and off, most at ease in a state of passage.
Many times I have made the journey back
Then crossed over again to this shore. I arrive,
But my gaze lags behind, slow to make the shift.
When I’m under close scrutiny, my attention is sure
To be focused elsewhere. Here I am leading
Someone else’s life, while over there another face
Goes by my name. I take steady steps, but my heart
Keeps missing a beat. When I listen to the voice within,
Someone else interrupts me. I peer sideways to see
Whose shadow doubles behind me. The road long abandoned
Cannot account for my absence; the years ahead
Will not guarantee if another will seek refuge in my guise.
In the interim, I cannot tell which half of my face
I am wearing. As bold as my spirit is,
I cannot seem to quell a queasy feeling
In the gut. The truth is, I am neither fully here
Nor there. Never will be. So be it.
I am not on the slippery edge of some breath-taking
Rescue but in the middle of my stride,
Measuring out the extent of this madeover life.
Reflections
on the Other
I
There are always two kinds
of people, two states of mind, two voices.
One voice stresses the need to understand
the other. The person who is addressed
as the other does not remember giving
this proponent the nod, but, in effect, experiences
being implicated in his own smearing--
an exile on his own soil.
Foreign but familiar, the voice speaks in accents
unworthy of the other’s dialect.
He was nursed on a native lexicon.
Neither his tongue nor his perception can be bent
to regard the uniqueness, the singularity
that is everywhere evident
As anything else but unique and singular, to be met
on its own ground with level eyes,
outstretched hand. It is this that the one
experiences as freedom – a gift that once belonged
to everyone, shared in good faith
but stealthily appropriated and now owned
By the one who says it is important
to hear the voice of the other.
II
If I am the other
what do you answer to?
Are you the designated one?
For, in order to call me the other,
you have to be the one who points
a finger; the first half who must go
looking for the other half; the known
and the knowing who must explain
the presence, often disconcerting
of the ununderstood, incomprehensible,
recently discovered stranger staring you in the face…
For you have just woken up
to what you never noticed before –
the multitude that was always around
even before you arrived.
Because whenever you stepped into the range
of those upturned faces, you always appeared
as a revelation, never guessing just how
transparent you stood. You, with your abysmal need
for love and obedience.
III
When you refer to the other, you say
We must think of the other
We must hear the voice of the other
We must empower the other -
Thereby expressing your largesse
your concern for that which has suffered neglect,
that you imagine you are ready to redress.
The moment You think 'other', you position yourself
in a place from which no one can budge you
simultaneously situating the other in an inextricable spot.
You approach, but only out of
incurable curiosity, unable to close the distance
you measured out before you got there.
It's your boundary, a kind of safety net
You can climb back into on the way out
Once your gesture is completed.
Your return was written into your future,
a loss well understood by those
You leave behind. The dignity of those you shame is a fate
you will never know, not until you're forced
To change places with the other.
IV
The other is a new taste, an echo
from a distant shore, any place you have
not been before, a country that insists on
occupying the map, an unforeseen epic
journey.
The other is a neighborhood beyond
your skin’s barbed wire fence; an uninvited
guest from a future age who could have been
your rescuer before your fear betrayed
his origins.
The other is a smell you disapprove of --
as strong, sensual, homely
as your own; a visible scar
that matches the wound you nurse
like a dark secret.
The other is an unclimbed mountain
veiled in mist; a poem that baffles;
yourself in a story minus your heroics;
a haunting melody; someone else’s pain whose trail
leads to your door.
The other is not always born condemned
to die as the other. It could switch sides
when no one is looking, yet keep the other
company; its own inescapable other, not the self’s
sloughed off other.
The other is the truth
continually denied, a lie only a shade deeper
than your own. If there were no other
to pick on, you’d have to invent one. For there is never
a final solution.
To the other, no easy transfusion of blood
to alter the course of your life. Only the hope
of being smitten by a face revealed
in mystery, standing mirrored in a far more
intimate estrangement.
I
There are always two kinds
of people, two states of mind, two voices.
One voice stresses the need to understand
the other. The person who is addressed
as the other does not remember giving
this proponent the nod, but, in effect, experiences
being implicated in his own smearing--
an exile on his own soil.
Foreign but familiar, the voice speaks in accents
unworthy of the other’s dialect.
He was nursed on a native lexicon.
Neither his tongue nor his perception can be bent
to regard the uniqueness, the singularity
that is everywhere evident
As anything else but unique and singular, to be met
on its own ground with level eyes,
outstretched hand. It is this that the one
experiences as freedom – a gift that once belonged
to everyone, shared in good faith
but stealthily appropriated and now owned
By the one who says it is important
to hear the voice of the other.
II
If I am the other
what do you answer to?
Are you the designated one?
For, in order to call me the other,
you have to be the one who points
a finger; the first half who must go
looking for the other half; the known
and the knowing who must explain
the presence, often disconcerting
of the ununderstood, incomprehensible,
recently discovered stranger staring you in the face…
For you have just woken up
to what you never noticed before –
the multitude that was always around
even before you arrived.
Because whenever you stepped into the range
of those upturned faces, you always appeared
as a revelation, never guessing just how
transparent you stood. You, with your abysmal need
for love and obedience.
III
When you refer to the other, you say
We must think of the other
We must hear the voice of the other
We must empower the other -
Thereby expressing your largesse
your concern for that which has suffered neglect,
that you imagine you are ready to redress.
The moment You think 'other', you position yourself
in a place from which no one can budge you
simultaneously situating the other in an inextricable spot.
You approach, but only out of
incurable curiosity, unable to close the distance
you measured out before you got there.
It's your boundary, a kind of safety net
You can climb back into on the way out
Once your gesture is completed.
Your return was written into your future,
a loss well understood by those
You leave behind. The dignity of those you shame is a fate
you will never know, not until you're forced
To change places with the other.
IV
The other is a new taste, an echo
from a distant shore, any place you have
not been before, a country that insists on
occupying the map, an unforeseen epic
journey.
The other is a neighborhood beyond
your skin’s barbed wire fence; an uninvited
guest from a future age who could have been
your rescuer before your fear betrayed
his origins.
The other is a smell you disapprove of --
as strong, sensual, homely
as your own; a visible scar
that matches the wound you nurse
like a dark secret.
The other is an unclimbed mountain
veiled in mist; a poem that baffles;
yourself in a story minus your heroics;
a haunting melody; someone else’s pain whose trail
leads to your door.
The other is not always born condemned
to die as the other. It could switch sides
when no one is looking, yet keep the other
company; its own inescapable other, not the self’s
sloughed off other.
The other is the truth
continually denied, a lie only a shade deeper
than your own. If there were no other
to pick on, you’d have to invent one. For there is never
a final solution.
To the other, no easy transfusion of blood
to alter the course of your life. Only the hope
of being smitten by a face revealed
in mystery, standing mirrored in a far more
intimate estrangement.
BANDRA
I love the environs
of your body
and its many insights. I recognize
every gesture, act, every foul thought
though I'll never understand
your central purpose. I do not wish to.
To grasp you is to cease to need you. It is
your incompleteness, inconstancy
attaches me to you.
You were once a sea-front town
that came up the thoroughfare
to the railway station. And passed beyond
its toy towers
to colonies that grew on your hands like sixth-fingers.
Turned around and ran
into a settlement
of shops, cafes, cinemas, churches,
hospitals, schools, parks.
Your mud is versatile.
*
In the shadow of the mosque's cool minars
the flower-seller
keeps himself going on tea and tobaccospit.
The traffic-policeman pats his uniform
before taking into his hands
metropolis and suburb
flowing heavily from one into the other.
The smell of grilled liver and seekh-kabab
outbids
the smell of perfume in parked cars.
Smell of goats and green leaves conveyed
from the highway's belt
into sheep-pen, cow-pen
changes into
meat, blood and intestines
swarming with flies
you flick a tail at
that turn into vultures over Slaughter House.
From the balcony at dusk
the muezzin calls
the Imam bends
the congregation
offers God His fourth meal of prayers.
*
Your dirt heaped mohulla erupts
Kitchenswear guttersmell
Your gauthan’s a natural kin
to every shitimmemorial lane
everywhere
You're newly poor
You're not even a true slum.
There's a place transcends your choice
Experts call it Asia's best ever area
bred in superreal sewage water
you can see
On any clear day coming north over the creek:
its swollen limb
thrives like a running boil
Elsewhere
a fellowship exists
at roof-level
of blackened tiles, and water tanks.
Of attic-study facing the gallery kitchen facing
the terrace bedroom.
Knocked-out
windows, drainpipes, skylight all blend
locked in unbroken sleep ...
Awaken us on the heights
of Pali Hill. In its green
lull. Take us along
wild hedges into expressive old bungalows
Show us beings
in whose love of gardens
resides a gift of flower and birdsong
*
There's no place like
Bandstand.
It's away
from home. If you've tried the auditorium
you'll find the rocks allow more elbow-room
go on kissing
clothes and fish will dry in the sun
an arse will be bared and lowered on the horizon
boys, hunting crabs, will eye you with interest
you're anonymous here.
Even
the pretty Goan ayah discards
her curry-stains, adds Afghan snow and
is ready to meet her greasy garagehand waiting
also in clean bright Sunday-disguise
*
Give everyone
what you've given us
the supermarket departments, the small
provision store, the sitting procession of hawkers
in the jostle of the road
Give everyone
the villa
with carved furniture and large cool lawns
and the ancestral Parsi nodding in the verandah
a piano in every Christian home, floral curtains
track trophies, a graduate son, three
wooden birds on the wall, wooden crucifix
Give everyone
the bounty of Bandra-girls:
send them to church but keep them
large-hearted
Give everyone
the vertical boom of brick and concrete
you never can resist inviting
the hero-ideal; newly risen
and the swift glint of his Mercedes
the local tough, itching to prove
his muscle-culture
the whore ambling in the halflight
the cripple's disjointed salaam ....
Once
every year
sweep your other hill with lights
dust with gold Mary of the Mount
polish the box of stored delights
your children
love to receive
with a dip and flourish of your wrinkled hand ....
*
Preserve us
Take all
evil spirits
driven into an offering
and dropped
from a train window
into creek water
to the sea.
I love the environs
of your body
and its many insights. I recognize
every gesture, act, every foul thought
though I'll never understand
your central purpose. I do not wish to.
To grasp you is to cease to need you. It is
your incompleteness, inconstancy
attaches me to you.
You were once a sea-front town
that came up the thoroughfare
to the railway station. And passed beyond
its toy towers
to colonies that grew on your hands like sixth-fingers.
Turned around and ran
into a settlement
of shops, cafes, cinemas, churches,
hospitals, schools, parks.
Your mud is versatile.
*
In the shadow of the mosque's cool minars
the flower-seller
keeps himself going on tea and tobaccospit.
The traffic-policeman pats his uniform
before taking into his hands
metropolis and suburb
flowing heavily from one into the other.
The smell of grilled liver and seekh-kabab
outbids
the smell of perfume in parked cars.
Smell of goats and green leaves conveyed
from the highway's belt
into sheep-pen, cow-pen
changes into
meat, blood and intestines
swarming with flies
you flick a tail at
that turn into vultures over Slaughter House.
From the balcony at dusk
the muezzin calls
the Imam bends
the congregation
offers God His fourth meal of prayers.
*
Your dirt heaped mohulla erupts
Kitchenswear guttersmell
Your gauthan’s a natural kin
to every shitimmemorial lane
everywhere
You're newly poor
You're not even a true slum.
There's a place transcends your choice
Experts call it Asia's best ever area
bred in superreal sewage water
you can see
On any clear day coming north over the creek:
its swollen limb
thrives like a running boil
Elsewhere
a fellowship exists
at roof-level
of blackened tiles, and water tanks.
Of attic-study facing the gallery kitchen facing
the terrace bedroom.
Knocked-out
windows, drainpipes, skylight all blend
locked in unbroken sleep ...
Awaken us on the heights
of Pali Hill. In its green
lull. Take us along
wild hedges into expressive old bungalows
Show us beings
in whose love of gardens
resides a gift of flower and birdsong
*
There's no place like
Bandstand.
It's away
from home. If you've tried the auditorium
you'll find the rocks allow more elbow-room
go on kissing
clothes and fish will dry in the sun
an arse will be bared and lowered on the horizon
boys, hunting crabs, will eye you with interest
you're anonymous here.
Even
the pretty Goan ayah discards
her curry-stains, adds Afghan snow and
is ready to meet her greasy garagehand waiting
also in clean bright Sunday-disguise
*
Give everyone
what you've given us
the supermarket departments, the small
provision store, the sitting procession of hawkers
in the jostle of the road
Give everyone
the villa
with carved furniture and large cool lawns
and the ancestral Parsi nodding in the verandah
a piano in every Christian home, floral curtains
track trophies, a graduate son, three
wooden birds on the wall, wooden crucifix
Give everyone
the bounty of Bandra-girls:
send them to church but keep them
large-hearted
Give everyone
the vertical boom of brick and concrete
you never can resist inviting
the hero-ideal; newly risen
and the swift glint of his Mercedes
the local tough, itching to prove
his muscle-culture
the whore ambling in the halflight
the cripple's disjointed salaam ....
Once
every year
sweep your other hill with lights
dust with gold Mary of the Mount
polish the box of stored delights
your children
love to receive
with a dip and flourish of your wrinkled hand ....
*
Preserve us
Take all
evil spirits
driven into an offering
and dropped
from a train window
into creek water
to the sea.
GROUP PORTRAIT
Four heads on a two-wheeler
is a tight-rope dance
promising edge-of-seat
suspense to the riders. For many,
This is an everyday machine of convenience.
No performer of tricks, or expert dodger,
this forced daredevilry
is for me a weekend act:
A getaway vehicle
for a clutch of kindred souls
poised in flight
from the city’s snares.
Emerging from our burrow
we bump along an open strip of road
shaking off the skyline
in hot pursuit after us.
Roll into the center of a charmed world--
vestiges of villages, a church
bathed in yellow light,
the undulating green waves stroking
Our sore eyes. We blink, unbelieving,
everytime we touch this holy relic.
This is the face
of the city in its infancy.
As if this last surviving child had fallen
out of history’s monstrous family tree
into a trap door
and stumbled upon the secret of everlasting youth:
Here it plays, curls gleaming in beams
Of sunshine, the taste of its toe
still lingering
in the mouth. Enchanted we move
Slowly, past the creek, skirting
the edge of the marsh
through a corridor
of palm, tamarind and casuarina, touching down
On our own private public sanctuary.
The suburban skyline’s given up
the chase. In front, the seashore--
and the children race into its open arms.
Not so hard here, in a chosen spot,
to screen out insistent noises
packaged by bands
of picnickers, by turning deaf to everything
Except the crash of the surf.
We stretch out, filling our eyes
with the sky’s embrace
mute to questions, doubts, that break
Surface to tiptoe abroad to take the air.
In this moment of respite we sit close
relearning the ease
with which we, as lovers, sat huddled.
I take the now-calloused hands
of a slaving housewife to my lips
in order to breathe
new life into them. From those fingertips
That stroke my hair the way I like it,
her love flows that it may arrest
the receding hairline
the multiplying streaks of grey.
It is the children’s squeals of delight, their abandon
that blesses our hurts, proves
our innocence.
They set us free to float above the earth
Interlocked in sheer weightlessness.
They are specks on the seashore
belonging to the future
We only ask for grace, that we may
Release our children with love, allowing pain
to preserve the distance
which welds our world together.
We call out to them and they run
Into our arms. We rise as a family
for the city dark to reclaim us.
Replenished, we ride home
Escorted by invisible hands.
Four heads on a two-wheeler
is a tight-rope dance
promising edge-of-seat
suspense to the riders. For many,
This is an everyday machine of convenience.
No performer of tricks, or expert dodger,
this forced daredevilry
is for me a weekend act:
A getaway vehicle
for a clutch of kindred souls
poised in flight
from the city’s snares.
Emerging from our burrow
we bump along an open strip of road
shaking off the skyline
in hot pursuit after us.
Roll into the center of a charmed world--
vestiges of villages, a church
bathed in yellow light,
the undulating green waves stroking
Our sore eyes. We blink, unbelieving,
everytime we touch this holy relic.
This is the face
of the city in its infancy.
As if this last surviving child had fallen
out of history’s monstrous family tree
into a trap door
and stumbled upon the secret of everlasting youth:
Here it plays, curls gleaming in beams
Of sunshine, the taste of its toe
still lingering
in the mouth. Enchanted we move
Slowly, past the creek, skirting
the edge of the marsh
through a corridor
of palm, tamarind and casuarina, touching down
On our own private public sanctuary.
The suburban skyline’s given up
the chase. In front, the seashore--
and the children race into its open arms.
Not so hard here, in a chosen spot,
to screen out insistent noises
packaged by bands
of picnickers, by turning deaf to everything
Except the crash of the surf.
We stretch out, filling our eyes
with the sky’s embrace
mute to questions, doubts, that break
Surface to tiptoe abroad to take the air.
In this moment of respite we sit close
relearning the ease
with which we, as lovers, sat huddled.
I take the now-calloused hands
of a slaving housewife to my lips
in order to breathe
new life into them. From those fingertips
That stroke my hair the way I like it,
her love flows that it may arrest
the receding hairline
the multiplying streaks of grey.
It is the children’s squeals of delight, their abandon
that blesses our hurts, proves
our innocence.
They set us free to float above the earth
Interlocked in sheer weightlessness.
They are specks on the seashore
belonging to the future
We only ask for grace, that we may
Release our children with love, allowing pain
to preserve the distance
which welds our world together.
We call out to them and they run
Into our arms. We rise as a family
for the city dark to reclaim us.
Replenished, we ride home
Escorted by invisible hands.
Sisters
One, not quite ten
but ahead of the other, younger
whose five plus will never catch up
with the big one’s lead
no matter how good she acts
or how hard she cheats.
Like any disadvantaged species
she has turned the handicap
in her favor: she’s bolder,
sneakier, sweeter than honey,
obeyer of commands, underminer of rules,
producer of tears, yeller, complete
Turnaround. The older gets
the tough end of it. Most times
blames end up in her sullen face.
Fighting back, she argues, attacks
me for taking the wrong side.
I sweet-talk her the way all parents
At all times have tried explaining
to the elder child. Living up
to her inheritance, she blazes back
at my moralizing. On bad days
I shout her down, immediately
regretting my words.
But even as she retreats
into a simmering silence, she stands her ground
knowing me to be unfair. Secretly,
I rejoice at the lesson never intended
but so well learnt: how to overcome
fathers, real and imagined.
One, not quite ten
but ahead of the other, younger
whose five plus will never catch up
with the big one’s lead
no matter how good she acts
or how hard she cheats.
Like any disadvantaged species
she has turned the handicap
in her favor: she’s bolder,
sneakier, sweeter than honey,
obeyer of commands, underminer of rules,
producer of tears, yeller, complete
Turnaround. The older gets
the tough end of it. Most times
blames end up in her sullen face.
Fighting back, she argues, attacks
me for taking the wrong side.
I sweet-talk her the way all parents
At all times have tried explaining
to the elder child. Living up
to her inheritance, she blazes back
at my moralizing. On bad days
I shout her down, immediately
regretting my words.
But even as she retreats
into a simmering silence, she stands her ground
knowing me to be unfair. Secretly,
I rejoice at the lesson never intended
but so well learnt: how to overcome
fathers, real and imagined.
SLOW DANCE
For me, this night blooming into day is enough.
Day blazing into noon, then sliding under
Shadows, feels right. Light chasing the dark,
Night trailing day like the squeaky motion
Of a swing, takes me up in an arc
To kiss the sky.
If someone can make safe bets
On a calendar of months, years running
Into decades, it is the swift of foot, the quick
Of tongue. The young can wager, unafraid
To build on the back of a hunch.
To them I bequeath my fire.
All I own I fit into a single bag, and walk
Free with empty hands. For stops,
A bare room with a long view will suffice.
Time now to mend the seams of kinship, call on
Old loves, shrug off pretenders. I’m ready
To roll up the mat. Yet,
Time hangs still like an unrung bell.
For me, this night blooming into day is enough.
Day blazing into noon, then sliding under
Shadows, feels right. Light chasing the dark,
Night trailing day like the squeaky motion
Of a swing, takes me up in an arc
To kiss the sky.
If someone can make safe bets
On a calendar of months, years running
Into decades, it is the swift of foot, the quick
Of tongue. The young can wager, unafraid
To build on the back of a hunch.
To them I bequeath my fire.
All I own I fit into a single bag, and walk
Free with empty hands. For stops,
A bare room with a long view will suffice.
Time now to mend the seams of kinship, call on
Old loves, shrug off pretenders. I’m ready
To roll up the mat. Yet,
Time hangs still like an unrung bell.