Shades of Village Life
There were no lights –
when I reached my village in stark secrecy –
It was still brightened with strange
shades of violet, blue, orange colours;
kissing and crashing into each other like the polygamous camels.
At the turn of wildly throbbing lane
girls returning late from evening tuition were
canvassing for toddy-tapper’s feasting eyes, and
jealous priests preached seasonal lies to the silent crowd of their followers.
Unaware of praise or pride, hard-working ants
burrowing through the fields for aging nutrients
slowly opened their eyes like a child in the womb.
In the crescent porch of my memories, a giant green
truck was waiting for loading
fresh yields of beetle leaves, potatoes, and also
rotten bodies of insurgent youths.
Exhausted by the false promises of the moon beams,
I slowly retreated into the cage of ripe grains.
A fear crept along the remains of sky –
I wanted to paint with the blood of dinosaurs, but
I didn’t feel like doing anything except
making love with my burnt skin patches!
(The poem is about my father’s village Basari in Bodhgaya, Bihar)
Mirrors, Mirrors, Mirrors…
Those days,
There were no mirrors in my country;
We lived without likes, dislikes or jealousies –
Wrinkles in the face were the only font of memory.
One day, they came from overseas –
Brought glass mirrors, perched them everywhere –
From post offices, railway stations to police check posts.
When we resisted,
they barricaded our moons and stars with mirrors.
It came true as it was said in our scriptures –
‘No more water, the fire next time.’
Frightened, many of us ran away from each other
When soldiers lighted mirror after mirror
like the oil lamps in the empty houses
And burnt our world.
They say we are faithful –
Mirrors have slowly become map of our country –
Imprisoned & enslaved permanently!
My Father’s Siblings
‘I’m one of fourteen siblings,
I found out all of my siblings have the same birthday,’ my father said.
Some of them were qawwali singers
Others were magicians;
Specialized in curing grief, and agony.
‘I loved all of them –
my children, my wife, my home,’ he often told me.
At the funeral of my mother
He couldn’t speak his language –
I wept like salt-in-sea.
He is now gone;
I don’t know how old I’m!
