It’s only 4 am, mother

Ma left in my arms, quietly
Without attention.
The machine beeped a little
And then she was gone.
In life, she loved sea breezes
Masala dosas, folk songs
Passages from the Gita
And lines from classic poems.
In life, she was life.
In death, she is an absence
The guests come to fill
But the bed remains empty.
Someone tells me it’s a good way to go
And I listen with attention –
A teenager who loves going out
Into evening, the wild spirits hastening
The darkness lengthening
Shadows that arms cannot hold.
Sometimes she asked for the world
And mostly she knew the time
Better than the arms of the clock.
The heavy feet of destiny came knocking
On the door, saying it’s time
To go, it’s dawn
With her breezy flutter, the promise of day.
Time to leave the world behind.

I entered a Vinod Kumar Shukla poem

Though the open window
And found a world inside.
Looking for a cricket ball from childhood
The one that smashed a window pane
Leaving smithereens and bringing everyone out from their homes
To watch kids scurrying away.

Inside, a cold dark table, no one there.
I felt my way along the walls
An old clock chiming.
The kid now works in America and is looking for a green card
The one that will keep him there forever.
The father is walking into sunset.

But there is still some journey left
To watch a cricket match somewhere
Along the well-worn road.
On a dusty street, where windows crackle when old.
The cricket ball must be somewhere in the corner,
It must have sneaked under the bed.

I look for the bed
Now no longer there.
The ball must have rolled into the kitchen
Filled with yesterday’s utensils, pots and pans
Raising a racket, tinkling old laughter.
It must have come out through the open door

Settling by the drain somewhere
Where tufts of wild grass grow
Tall as reawakening.
I sneaked out of the house on tip toe
Careful not to wake those sleeping.
Through a gap between the stanzas, I jumped

Finding myself somewhat strange
To be out again inside the world
Holding a comma
The question mark still eluding me.
Instead of a cricket ball, only the pages turned
As one round year became another.

The Interview

There were dark almonds too, smoked ones
Next to butter cookies which smelled so nice
I almost forgot to ask the right question –
And told them to help themselves.
The room was coloured pink, in keeping with the theme
Of the day, or was it the month?
Hard to know the changing colours these days.
I was in the middle of the second candidate,
Asking her to solve an algorithm, a code I had cracked years ago
Then I remembered the water pump at home.
Did I switch the geyser off?
Silence all around, empty page on pad, pen on mouth
They were finding hidden answers to secret questions.
What lay beneath, the gods of market and science.
I had forgotten about the first applicant,
The one with brown hair and freckles
Resembling dots and dashes on a screen.
The third one was still to come, perhaps a genius or future guru
With all the answers – and maybe the next question too
When suddenly I got a phone call, asking me to come downstairs
In a moment, and it was urgent the voice said
And that’s when I first heard I was fired.

Old Man and the River

When you set out early morning
For the temple
You weren’t sure if the gods were coming to you
Or you were going to them.
The walk towards the temple next door
Took ages, perhaps a lifetime.
You saw, for years, the shrine grow
Elephant tusked, into a tall white building
As you crossed the years
Walking on, towards a few shops
Selling knick-knacks and bric-a-brac for everyday.
And turning, you went down the narrow mud path
To the swollen river
Filled with monsoon pride.
Little else is known, that much can be said.
But you didn’t come back to the weary street of living
On the road where cars flash by
Not recognising time, fleeting as yesterday’s film scene
That tune on everyone’s lips.
Then you paused before the giant river
And waited – not for the feeling of distance
To creep up, for things were so close
And there was a strange fellowship to it.
Not the embrace of love, or familial barbs
But something different, perhaps the vastness of existence.
That’s how things must have happened.
When a flash of life came by
Just to ask: where are you going so early?

Translating Rumi

Salim bhai thinks I can translate Rumi
From Persian to Hindi
While stopping for Urdu along the way.

Yes, I reply
To his bare racks where books once lived.
I know no Persian or Urdu.

My tongues are coloured Assamese and Bangla.
My Hindi just a smattering.
Yet he believes I can do it.

All you need is a bridge
From here – all the way – to Persia.
His faith in me is touching.

A white horse spelling rain and love.
Words drizzle in my heart.
Rumi will light the world for me.

New words blaze in the new year.
Keep this in your zehn, he says
When one day Rumi comes calling.

Excerpted with permission from A Different Story, Amlanjyoti Goswami, Paperwall Publishing.

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