WITHOUT A PLACE
This is how the shloka goes -
women, nails and hair
once they've fallen
just can't be put back
said our Sanskrit teacher.
Frozen in place out of fear
we girls held on tight to our seats.
Place, what is this 'place'?
We were shown our place
in the first grade.
We remembered our elementary school lessons
Ram, Go to school, son,
Radha, Go and cook!
Ram, here is your candy, son,
Radha, bring your broom!
Ram, bedtime, school tomorrow
Radha, go and make the bed for brother.
Aha!, this is our new house
Look Ram!, here's your room
"and mine?"
Oh, little loony!
Girls are wind, the sun and the good earth
They have no homes
"those without a home,
where do they belong?"
Which is the place from where we fall,
become clipped nails, fallen hair trapped in combs,
fit only to be swept away?
Houses left behind, paths left behind
people left behind
the questions chasing us, too left behind.
Leaving tradition behind,
now I feel I'm as out of context
as a short line
from a great classic
scribbled on a BA examination paper.
(Translated from the original Hindi)
MOBILE
"Those who walk within confines are men,
those who walk beyond are saints."
No confines for me, no confines
a closed fist is my boundary wall
I can go wherever I want
but in this man's pocket
I can connect to anyone anywhere
but always under his thumb.
Even when he's dead asleep
he'll tuck me under his pillow
listening to the tick tock tick of his wristwatch.
The whole night through
quietly I'll keep all his messages
coming from all over the world.
Those silent messages will glow
in my dark spaces
They'll glow like the cat's-eyes
of my dream-memories:
Mother's ailments
filed court cases
all the office scuffles
all the rush of unfinished kisses
all the muffled calls
the faint quivers of many a held-in sob all flicker within me.
In me flutter the wounded wings of messenger-pigeons
each feather yanked out and flicked off one by one
once in a while, even a pat on the wing.
No matter how modern the world may be
the expression of love and hate are primordial.
I'm like the roads of old Baghdad
before the American bombings
Parallel to the modern malls
are the old souks and the meena bazaar
glittering inside me
like archeological ruins dotting the heart of the metro
But I don't want
somebody to sit down and
analyze me
to pigeonhole me.
At long last, beyond all contexts
it's been really hard
but I've gotten here.
Let me be hummed
like an abhang,
unfinished.
[Translation from Hindi by Arlene Zide and the poet]
