Purple skies and roaring thunder,
Megh Daakchhe,
he would say.
The clouds are calling.
We watch the swaying coconut trees
and smell the rain before we see it,
Tiny legs dangling from the balcony,
Feeling the first drops of
summer rain, on our tiny feet.
It pours and pours and pours.
While it pours there,
It whispers here, softly.
A low hum, and a blanket of grey.
A grey blanket over my feet,
Now grown.
The trees outside my window,
Bare.
The clouds never called.
You have skeletons in your closet.
I’ve heard they smell like nail varnish,
And through parched lips they plead
Phan dao maa, phan dao maa.
Three million whispery calls
From wispy bodies become screams.
And you chose to look away,
Shut your ears and eat your rice.
You didn’t respond.
The skeletons in your closet loom
Larger than you, a dark shadow
Darker than the dense clouds above
You that will never wash away
The smell, the screams or the
The memory of hunger.
We remember by remembering to
Ask each time we see you.
Bhaat Kheyechho?
Have you eaten?
A moment of peace in
Sultry evenings
The golden sun, not yet set.
Cha Biskoot. Chatter ensues.
Peace in chaos?
The sun swooshes down
Satisfied.
Have you ever HAD
A Marie dipped in cha?
A moment of peace in
In the dark days of winter
The sun set at three today.
It smells like coffee and
Butter.
Endless evenings of quiet.
I wait for the sun.
And for the chatter,
I left behind with the Marie
And cha.
Do the shoes we wear
To walk in a city
Change the way we see them?
Young, I gave my chappals
The permission to blister my
Awkward feet. I let them take
Their time, to get used to me.
They traversed uneven roads
Jumping over holes and
Puddles, braving the summer
Heat and burning tar.
My mother tells me she
Was the same. We have the
Same awkward feet.
My awkward feet tend to
Get cold. Convenient, for
London is a shoe city.
My cheap, ugly shoes.
Blend in perfectly
With the others I see on
The tube. In shoes,
one can’t be leisurely.
My cheap, ugly shoes take
Me everywhere with great
Efficiency. Holding dear every
Second of my time, lest I
Waste it, jumping over a loose
Stone on the way.
She said,
​
Women were too powerful
It’s why we were cursed,
and why we bleed.
In a saffron land,
Dare I claim red?
My ancestors were Goddesses.
Worshipped, feared, loved.
All too powerful.
It’s why we bleed today.
I’ve heard stories about
Hands, and the magic they possess
In Bengal, they weave air,
Is how the story goes.
Diaphanous, exquisite, inimitable.
These hands became a thing of wonder
And worry.
Chop off their thumbs! they cried.
Or so, we heard. And raged.
We came together
defending the hands, refusing to
let the magic fade.
I have rough hands,
worker’s hands, they tell me.
Reliable, sturdy and making.
Always making.
In saving the magic, I
found some in my own
two hands.
What makes up the music of a city?
Do the noisy streets of Calcutta
Find contrast in Tagore, or
Competition in the beats of
The dhaak during pujo?
Is the lilting language a precursor,
or a product of it?
When music sheds its words
Do we find the words inside us?
I’ve been listening to a lot of Jazz
Lately. And I’ve been dancing
With people I cannot communicate
With. Have we been communicating
Through the words within?
What makes up the music of a city?
Can I use the same ears to
Listen to London?
A valuable piece of knowledge I
inherited from my grandfather
was how to protect oneself
from snakes in a forest.
Dig all around around your tent!
Snakes slither in,
but can’t slither out.
Valuable knowledge indeed
as I live amongst squirrels,
pigeons and magpies.
Finding instead the snakes
within. I dig around my tent
welcoming them. I add a step,
I talk to them.
I don’t let them slither out.
I am not fascinated by bridges.
But I know of a certain Cantilever,
Across the Hooghly.
A marvellous feat of science!
He would say. I would nod.
Not knowing when
I’d see them again.
I am not fascinated by bridges.
But I see one everyday
While crossing the Thames
To go home.
Two bridges and two homes.
My grandfather’s secret hobby
Was grocery shopping.
Every summer, before we visited
He would bring a few
Staples to the house.
Aam, maachh and mishti.
In his white pajama panjabi, with
His plastic shopping bag,
Drenched in the Calcutta humidity.
Ghaam.
He got us kheer kodom and
Roshogulla and langcha for me.
Langcha for me.
Mangoes for my brother.
I pretended to hate mangoes
For precisely that reason.
His shopping bag lay empty
For the last couple of years,
Until,
He breathed his last
a day before his birthday.
On birthdays, we feast.
How does one feast if
nobody went shopping?
I took songs
For granted, as one tends
To, when at the drop of
A hat, your mother,
Grandparents, and all your
Aunts would sit around their
Rusty harmonium
To sing Tagore in unison.
Melodies, etched in my mind,
With lyrics remembered by
my five year old self, jumbled
At times, at times oddly clear.
I don’t understand that Bangla
I can only sing it. And feel.
I took dance
For granted, as one tends
To, when dance exists in their
Mother. I’m told I have dancer’s
Eyes, I tell them they are my
Mother’s.
Our eyes don’t look alike.