mahashtami night 2011

8/3/2019 Mahashtami Night 2011

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MAHA-ASHTAMIWe touched desolation with our handsAs we talked, afterwardsAfter the thing was done,After the grinding, groaningReluctant moaning,The monotony of routine never blendingInto anything even resembling pleasure,Not sated though sweaty,Mind frankly on other thingsThose last few mom ents,Almost though not quite boring,Aged glands having nothing more to give,

Yes, ended for the time being,Duty done finally,We talked.We talked about the price of fuelThe cost of life itself,Though for us life restricted itselfTo food, and tuition fees and two carsAnd the cost of maintaining two establishmentsInvisibly marked His and Hers.Somewhere along the nightWe found sleep, unawares and tripped on itAnd fell.Come next morning, the weekly duty discharged(A little early for the week,But the festival imposed its rules),We would both withdraw behind drawn newspapersBehind guarded front pagesAnd from the safe refuge,She w hile sipping juiceAnd I my bitter brew,In between the toast and the sunny side upThe only grinning thing that early in the m orningWe would discuss safe mattersLike how she is doing at schoolAnd whether to get he r a piano teacher.The day would wind down,I with my journals and obscure textsShe with her songs unsung and painThen the television sets would blareThe best pandals, the best Puja, anywhereAnd w e would d iscover, that this years PujasAre halfway through.

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ARCHAEOLOGY

There between the blinding edgesOf the darkness and the dawn,And a certain incantationOf fold mountains being bornAnd the first viscous slime that discussedIn protean seas that same diseaseThat made us leave the brineThat saucer spilling vague uneaseWhen hungerMade you m ine.Lets talk about our inner feelings

And on borrowed thoughtsTouch the ceilingOf a log bound Scythian caveAnd the lens of ice that savedWhat remained from despoiling.The beads you gathered from fallen fruitsSeeds of new beginningThe yellowed teeth of the sabre-toothMy first hunt, being and becoming.Your tears that dried before I cameOn my scarred chest that evening.All of these some future seesAnd uncaring files as museum piece.And if today, all things should endSo very far from the river bendThe gurgling waters would call us loversBut the land would know we died friends.

LYING IN PROSE.

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The Met Office did not forecast the spellOf weeping and the squall of discoveredInfidelity.There was a storm in m y neighbours teacupThat did not make the evening news.While you and I sipped tepid teaOver and over againAnd waiters hoveredWaiting for further ordersOr the impatient gestureFor the check,That weather happened.

Ever tactful, you did not discuss it,Or the thunder in my heart,As I heard you tell me, ever polite,That you had betrayed my trust.That it would never be the same,Ever again.For a while I charted the world in theRed and white chequered table clothThat bore mute witness, to spilledWine, broken minds and crumbs of passion;That bore in silence the weight ofAll the tears that went to wasteSince they feasted in Bithynia andTransalpine Gaul.For a while I contemplated the patternsIn failing feelings, in blood that tiresOf racing unthinking in arteries and veinsThat have ceased to care.For a while.I looked up, then, and saw you bitingYour lip that quivered even as you bitThinking how to end this, end this now,End this once and for all.Will there be anything more?The supercilious w aiters raised eyebrowsAsked, un-asked in a fleeting moment.Is there anything more?Lets meet again, you said.I said I would, and then you roseAs we left the always lying in prose.

AN EKADOSHI OFFERING

Forget the perfect offeringThat soul cut off from the

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Lies that made lifeWorth living.The marriage vowsThe promises spentIn between governmentAnd the budget.I see the pillowsWhere your headCarved a depressionThat neither FDRNor ManmohanCould rescue me from.The crack between the

HeartsWhich let in the lightOf other tomorrows.I have fled from tomorrowsAnd historiesAnd current events as they happened.I have fled your little tragediesThe Caesars and the holocaustsAs if they never happened.It isnt fair, it isnt fairNeither wasTiananmen Square.Thirty four years passed in a restless dreamThe two euphoria flowed under the b ridgeThat you formed between me and youAnd the space in between.The bridge across the silenceBetween love and hateThe bridge across me andThe bridge across you.The bridge that I could walk overIf I could only come back to you.

My letters reached faded homesWhere your flesh melted in mothsBefore the fire.My locust lust fled your endlessInvitations, the decayed fleshOf your desire.The moonlight soothes PatroclesAs he poses through warsAnd play acts as courage.

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mahashtami night 2011

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