The Poetry Marathon

Batter-fry

Take one woman, docile
Add liberal doses of harsh treatment,
preferably, in the first few
months/years of marriage.
Harsh, how harsh?
Hmm, comments like,
late from work again,
flirting with your colleague,
didn’t your mother teach you anything,
housework first,
children first,
husband first,
the curry tastes awful,
iron my shirt,
come into the bedroom,
you get the point.
When raw and bleeding,
sprinkle generous comments
about a woman’s place,
her priorities in life,
her taste in clothes,
and her general sloppiness.
Now take a cauldron
and deposit the oil
of negative emotion into it.
Unjustified anger’s highly recommended.
Bring to boil.
Drop battered woman in.
Use slotted spoon of reason
to turn, remove when well-done.
No need to drain.

delicate veins
that throb no more
still calm in their
fragility
perfect poise
even in death
and dying

the exhausted mother
shut her eyes
her back was hurting
she didn’t have it in her
to tell her children
the regular bedtime story

just imagine, she said to them,
a beautiful garden
in front of your eyes
with flowers in bright
colours

and anima-
she sensed
a movement
in front of her

blinking
open her eyes
she saw her five-year old’s
head hover above her own
an anxious expression
on her child face
what’s the matter sweetheart,
she asked, concerned

mama, i’m looking
for the garden in your eyes
because there’s no garden
before my eyes

heart attack, the words
whispered from ear to ear
sounded horrible, cruel
condescending
all i wanted was to rush
into the room
where my father
lay hooked up
and hold him
close, tell him
he was safe
they were allowing
no one in
not even ma
why? did they know
about the fight
about the cruel words
did they know that
children’s hearts
flutter in fear
at such times
my heart is fluttering now
am I getting attacked too
by my own heart
I stand to call ma
but words don’t
leave my throat
I drop to the floor
many hands help me
moments later
or have hours
gone by
my eyes blink open
to see
both my parents
hover over me
what? i gasp
dada, how did you
what happened to me?
did i have a heart attack too?

dada smiles at me
ma does the same
their expression is
of genuine care
my surprise must have registered
it’s alright, dada says
we’re good, i’m good
you’re good
i didn’t have a heart attack
it was stress
and you didn’t have one either
you’d gone hungry too long
i sat up smelling something good
a tray with delicious soup
lay nearby
dada signaled to the nurse
and soon i was tucking in
relief trickles down my back
in gentle waves
all’s well that ends well

tiny heart beats
madly excitedly
they’ve given me
the instructions
which float like strips
of rainbow from
my jaw
– as you proceed
they’ll send you
more and more
to carry
be willing
you can do it

with me are beating
thousands and thousands
of tiny hearts
as we proceed
from the south east
to the south west
the wind our only master
guide, and compass

it’ll happen, they said
something about
the point of saturation
but it was too
technical to make sense
my companions were getting
excited as we neared
a tall mountain range
we couldn’t rise
a gathering of clouds
we hit it
we burst, overwhelmed
they it rained 40 days
and 40 nights
i too was lost
in ancient waters
before ascending
to a new cycle
the birth
of a new gathering

early morning commotion in the local park. a group of seniors gathered together were creating a ruckus. a few joggers and walkers stopped to watch their one antic. all were doing the same action, standing with feet apart and raising their forelimbs gently, stretching their body backward ever so slightly. these action was accompanied by raucous sounds emanating from their mouths. the energy of this noise turned the disbelieving crowd of onlookers into believers.

a simple act
bodies working on bodies
the grass murmurs assent

parting
only to meet again
the leaves, the tress
the sky, the sun
the moon, the stars
your favorite coffee
the rain drops sliding
down the window glass
is but sweat
beaded on your back
all this and more
will remind
me of you
and the day
we’re to meet again

lentils and rice
Slow-cooked
Yellow from turmeric
Fragrant with spices
Hot, steaming
Delicious
Dip into memory
and take a large helping of
khichadi

four pebbles
all in hues of
a marine blue
sit on teacher’s
table

students go
upto her
and learn
to count in fours

four in one set
nestled in an apple cup
is four
and si it goes

till it’s my turn
and i say four two’s
are eight
four three’s are twelve

when teacher nods
encouraging me
i say four four’s are
and stop

a scorpion is crawling there
among the pebbles
and one more and
there’re more

i point to one
angry red scorp
and teacher screams
and throws out

the pebbles
scorpions and all
i smile but not too much
i’d gathered the creatures

in break time
and had released them
there to play their role
as distractor main

we had the rest of the day off
as teacher was nervously clearing
the classroom checking
for scorpions

The thunder claps did not
bother, the pouring rain
could not dampen
our spirits as we
frolicked on our
first weekend as newlyweds

we’ve come here
before with
the children and didn’t
we tear our hair
pandering to their
every need

now it’s different
we’re different
the mirror speaks
longer to each of us
than we do with
each other

there’s love yet
it’s not the same
why