Suitcase
This battered suitcase is my companion of old
Its dents and stains hold stories untold
It has made transnational journeys through years
Defying borders and custodians of fears.
A whiff of jasmine escapes as I lift
The lid under which are memories and gifts –
A temple bell tinkling from a pluralist shrine
A white cotton sari drenched in her silent brine
A flute from a cowherd waking to the muezzin’s call
My school choir’s photo harmonising our hall
A bursting ripe jackfruit beside delectable mangoes
Karabi[1]with madhabi[2] and a bedewed tuber rose
A soft quilted kantha[3] from recycled cloth
Handstitched by Thakuma[4] for my daughter at birth.
Fresh mountain mists wrap tea leaves in a tin
Ma’s songs on a tape, still sweet and serene
A feather from a pigeon floating free from its flight
A string from the intense blue of an ambitious kite
A plate of Sal leaves with teardrops from my stream
An ember from pyres where countless more gleam
A glass from a tea stall sweetened by friends
In interminable addas[5] and debates without end
A neat sheaf of letters in Baba’s elegant hand
Recounting the days I have not yet left behind.
1 Oleander.
2 An evergreen liana with white scented flowers.
3 Handstitched quilt often made from recycled saris and dhotis that is distinctive of Bengal.
4 Paternal grandmother.
5 A Bengali word that indicates an informal conversation amongst a group pf people, usually friends – on diverse subjects, which can go on for hours.
A Quiet Gift
I thought I heard a soft thud
At the door
I opened it, but there was no one there
The street was empty as if the people
Had with one accord
Sought hibernation.
But at my doorstop was a bouquet
Of abundant life, dripping petals
In pink, topaz and ruby droplets
Blooming in defiance of the snow
A warm note of approbation
In a missive that came without,
A signature declaring a love
That sought no acknowledgement
Of the bountiful sender.
We Will Leave the City Behind
(for my childhood friends)
The suitcases are packed
And ready to be stowed away –
It is time to leave
The big city behind.
As the winter mists lift
From vacant green plots
The tall apartment blocks
Contemplate the early arrivals
To the city streets –
The struggling folk
Who drift in to start
Another long day.
Let us speed away from it all –
Coursing through the Bypass
To join the Highway –
That promise of freedom
On the open road…
We will leave behind
The panic and pressure
Of projects and deadlines
The bickering bustle
The lies and promises
Of the metropolis.
We will obliterate the thought
Of the storms that have raged
Across nations and oceans
The fires that leap through
Forests and cities,
Ravaging continents
Of forests that weep
For the composure and silence
They knew in the past
When their roots remained firm.
Let us shed any dread
We have of wars on our borders
Of disabling disorders –
For now we can head
For the dignity of Sal trees
And catch the fresh breeze
We will head for the south
Where the river flows wide
And step in with its tide
Leaving behind the reality
That has shadowed our daydreams
In the gargantuan city
We now leave behind.
