When Shammi Kapoor Slides Down the Snow
in Junglee , shouting ‘Yahoo’, they tell you it’s Kashmir
but it is actually Kufri, near Shimla.
When Ranbir Kapoor climbs up the snow
in YJHD , all moonstruck, they tell you it’s Manali
but it is actually Gulmarg, in Kashmir.
So we’ve always got it wrong—granduncle or
grandnephew—and we’ve been like this for long
always Kashmir without Kashmiris, all for a song.
From Akhil Katyal’s How Many Countries Does The Indus Cross
****
Grief
is the least biodegradable of objects.
Do not bury it.
Stash it between your fingers
and in those inconsolable hours
let it run.
There will be nights
when even steel
dissolves with your touch.
From Akhil Katyal’s How Many Countries Does The Indus Cross
****
Saasurvasin
Get up, saasurvasin bai
get up at midnight, neatly set out the grain
begin working the grinding stone
Get up, saasurvasin bai
get up, it’s dawn, the rooster crows
it’s time to take the pitcher on your head
Get up, saasurvasin bai
get up and light, light the stove
the sun rapidly rises
Get up, saasurvasin bai
get up, massive work in the farm lies ahead
You are but cattle in the shed
Get up, saasurvasin bai
Mother-in-law grumbles and is annoyed
wipe that tear from your eye
Get up, saasurvasin bai
be patient, don’t talk back, hold your tongue
let the memories of your maher comfort you!
From Anjali Purohit’s Go Talk To The River: The Ovis of Bahinabai Chaudhuri
****
Second sight
In Pascal’s endless queue,
people pray, whistle, or make
remarks. As we enter the dark,
someone says from behind,
‘You are Hindoo, aren’t you?
You must have second sight.’
I fumble in my nine
pockets like the night-blind
son-in-law groping
in every room for his wife,
and strike a light to regain
at once my first, and only
sight.
From AK Ramanujan’s Journeys: A Poet’s Diary
****
When Landscape Becomes Woman
I was eight when I looked
through a keyhole
and saw my mother in the drawing room
in her hibiscus silk sari,
her fingers slender
around a glass of iced cola
and I grew suddenly shy
for never having seen her before.
I knew her well, of course —
serene undulation of blue mulmul,
wrist serrated by thin gold bangle,
gentle convexity of mole
on upper right arm,
and her high arched feet —
better than I knew myself.
And I knew her voice
like running water—
ice cubes in cola.
But through the keyhole
at the grownup party
she was no longer
geography.
She seemed to know
how to incline her neck,
just when to sip
her swirly drink
and she understood the language
of baritone voices and lacquered nails
and words like Emergency.
I could have watched her all night.
And that’s how I discovered
that keyholes always reveal more
than doorways.
That a chink in a wall
is all you need
to tumble
into a parallel universe.
That mothers are women.
From Arundhati Subramaniam’s Love Without A Story: Poems
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