Give Me a Bomb, Not Love

Next time,

Give give me a bomb, not love.

Give me the 'tick-tick boom'

And not the ceaseless

Tick-tick, tick-tick,

Tick-tick, tick-tick,

Tick-tick, tick-tick,

Tick-tick, tick-tick

Give me the sudden stroke of mortality

And spare me the cruel sentence

Of death by sleepless nights and nicotine

Bereft of dreams

Let it blow up mercilessly

Shredding me to pieces

I can never put back together.

Re-arranging a heart

Is too much like re-arranging furniture.

We bleed and tire uselessly over something

That never quite fits, is never quite right

And never quite feels like home again.

Make it bloody and messy

And the stains permanent,

Reminders that there once was life,

Not clean and cold

As if untouched, unbothered, unloved.

And as it tears me apart

Let it also tear down

This house of ghosts to the ground.

But,

If you do choose to give me love,

Then let it be like a Bomb

Without complications, questions,

Prejudices and conditions.

Let it travel light

With no excesses and excuses

As it bursts in a quickened flash

May it offer no apologies and simply state

"Because I am a bomb."

Let it not hesitate over pride

Nor waste its time over nonsenses

That it can neither control or predict.

Let it go off with all conviction

And attempt to leave as little of itself

But much of its effect.

Let it shatter all mirrors and illusions

That reflect wrinkles and lines and measures of waistlines

And let it know no other choice than to explode

And let it explode.

I Will Pretend to Laugh

You will have your lover,
And I will have my memories

And I will pretend that I have the better
That mine is pristine, without blemish
That it is imperfectly perfect and woven
To the greatest of ideals
That in this you are always beautiful
Always in love, always loved
Without faults, except for those
That endear you even further.
Like tears, and fears.

And I will pretend that he has the worse
That with every kiss, he feels the sour
Of dissatisfaction, the tremble of
Of lonely longing,
That every time he holds you near,
He observes the graying of your hair
And the hand he holds feel feverish
Wrought with worries he cannot comprehend.

And I will pretend that I do not wish
These little inconveniences that appear
Like lines on an old, solid wall
Built by the years of enduring and loving.

And I will pretend to laugh
For you will have your lover
And I will have my memories.

Keep your heart to yourself
Listen,
Keep your heart to yourself.
Mend it, tend to it
Fit the pieces back to where they fit
Let it find its rhythm back
And beat again in harmony to life
Let it shine.
Treat it better than you would a toy
So it would not be played with.
Keep it in your chest of valuables
It is the most precious thing you own
Keep it warm and forgetful and true.
Care for it.
And should you find mine,
Please care for her too.

Valentine

There’s this mentally retarded woman that comes to our house. She lives alone and she frequently does not have anything to eat and so she’d come over and my Mom would understand exactly why. She would give her food and her old clothes, shoes, bags etc. Now this woman once had a family; a husband and children but they all died in a horrible accident at Dam Site where they all drowned. She’s never been the same ever since. She stopped making sense and would just say the most random things. Since a couple of years back though, she’s been better in the sense that you can converse with her almost like a normal person. This started apparently with the coming of a man into her life. She says his name is Bah Duh and that he drives a taxi. We have never seen this man but every time she comes to our shop or house, the first thing she would say is that she’s been looking or waiting for Bah Duh. She claims that he bought her food and other things and that he told her to meet him somewhere but he didn’t come. We didn’t know exactly what to make of all this. At first we thought that there is some callous man playing a cruel joke on her, probably having a good laugh out of it with friends. Now, we doubt if he even exists. People all same the same thing about her; that she’s always out somewhere all over the city looking for Bah Duh but no one has ever seen this man. Wanda, in all her naïve bluntness, once asked her straight if he existed. The poor woman got up and left the shop and disappeared for a week. Late one night, we heard a knock on our door and there she stood with her best smile. My mom was so relieved to see her and ushered her in. Asking her where she had been, she simply replied, “With Bah Duh.”  We offered her food to which she declined politely (she’s always very polite) but when my Mom insisted, she sat down to eat. She ate like someone who hadn’t eaten a long time.

Last night, as I was coming home at around 10, I saw her standing out in the street in our locality. She was standing near Top Saw, the place where people without parking places in their house would park their cars for the night. I stopped to ask her what she was doing there and she said that she was waiting for Bah Duh. I drove on a little ahead and stopped. I parked my bike near a shop to get some cigarettes for the night. Having bought them, I decided to have one right there and waited. I wanted to see this elusive Bah Duh I do not know whether she knew I was there watching or not. I made no great attempts to hide either but she never looked at me even once. She just stared into empty space and then turned expectantly at every car that came through. It struck me, the sheer madness of it and I prayed he’d come. Even if he were just a callous man playing a cruel joke on her, I prayed he’d come. I watched, transfixed, as she, God knows how long she’s been standing there, in the cold, almost motionless, waited for him to come. After almost an hour she moved and walked away in her usual quick, brisk manner towards our house. She passed by me without looking or saying a word. So, I went to my bike, straightened it and I followed her. Just then I saw my friend’s nephew. A young boy around 16 years old and he was walking with this girl tightly held around his arm. Startled and embarrassed to suddenly see me, he stammered, “Kumno Bah Lal?.”…..and then added cheekily, ”Happy Valentine’s Day.” Bastard.

Lianchhiari

(painting by LT Zohranga)

'Should the wind carry this voice.'

Reaching the edge of the rock
she beckons me
Saying ''Come sit with me and sing''
Would they hear I ask
''I don't know'' she says
To what purpose then I ask
''I don't know'' she replies
''But come sit. We'll drown out this emptiness
and pretend that echoes are answers''

So in the still of the night
There by the side
of a mountain,
There we sat
Singing songs of lovers
In a strange land

She lifts her voice
to the lilt of a soft breeze
The cliffs sway to the nuances
Of notes that rise and fall
in a dirge of bitter reverie
Every word she punctuates with the deepest longing
Every strain she thrusts with the urgency of living
(or is it death?)
Calling him home
Come back to where you belong

Till her voice starts to tire,
She turns to me
With eyes pleading through a film of water
Begging to not let the silence take over
The killing silence that surrounds threateningly.

So I raise a stammering voice
To the odour of pollinating flowers
Of cherry blossoms blooming
from a melancholic cherry tree.

Dispersed into the unsure wind she smiles
''Let it fall all over, all apart, near and far
Let it reach them anywhere,
anywhere they are''

Closer and closer to the edge
She dances wildly
But always, before she falls over
Dawn breaks and I ask her
Would they hear
''I don't know'' she says
''But it's better than the emptiness
and we'll pretend that echoes are answers''

So in the still of the night
There by the side
of a mountain
There we sit
Singing songs of lovers
In a strange land.

and a guava tree (for all my Riatsamthiah friends, though none of you read or care for poetry)

'yes, this is it,' he said, 'I'm sure of it

  
this is the spot where Helu fell.

  
right here, not this concrete

 back then, it was grass and dirt

and plants and a guava tree

  
stretching out like neverland

from that big,red gate there

  
to beyond that grey wall, into that old,crumbling house

where that crazy woman would stare at our play

  
say nothing, just look at us with those bright, glistening eyes

 it seemed bigger then, when we ran from end to end

  catch our breath and run again

 the girls would tease him for being afraid

  the guava tree was slippery see,

  and heights made him uncomfortable

  but being called a girl was enough

  he climbed and slipped and broke his arm

  how our parents scolded us and we couldn't stop laughing

  they chopped down the tree after that

 along with the sweet fruits that we ate till our stomachs ached

  yes, I'm sure of it, right here, this very spot'

 mumbling he sank to the cement floor,

 'get up you sobbing fool, you're drunk' they said,

 snickering behind him,

this will be a great story for another drunken day they thought

 he struggled with his feet

 and his tears

searching for the spot where Helu fell.

Your Hands

Your hands

They let go.

Once, 

they caressed

and cradled 

then, 

they let go.

They moved 

to gesture 

the deepest love

fought,

to subside 

the darkest fears

They bear lines 

and marks 

of all your years 

yet, 

stay empty 

for more.

Once, 

they held 

and embraced 

then, 

they let go.

Unlike you

They let go.

To Baruk

Dear Baruk, 
I have often tried to imagine the sunsets that you have described, 

How you say they fall with a satisfied sigh, 
dipping into the white sands of Gokarna beach 
and merge the shadows into the palm trees 

Or the ones that you see now down there 
amidst protest signs and occupying Aotea Square, 
Do you still pause to look? 
How strange and yet familiar they would seem, 
Like death. 

I imagine we have sunsets here too 
But in our rush to get home and ready 
for churches and committees 
We have missed them 
We only have white walls and bright lights 
taunting an indifferent sun 

Adamant that the world is bad and ending 
and our little lives, worthless and suffering 
We offer up prayers convinced of their worth in volume 

I sometimes wonder Baruk, 
If God is not in here 
but out there, busy making sunsets. 

Names

My name is not enough
So I'll have to suffer
''Whose son are you?''
In hopes that I drop 
the name of some officer 
or politician or businessman 
A name that they have heard
Probably blackened with envy
In small meaningless conversations 
Over tea and theology
So when I utter a name unrecognized
They hesitate
Desperate to associate it 
With one they wish they knew better
And when they fail 
''What does she do?''
A humble seamstress
From whom I inherit 
Only a debt of love
They turn away,
And wonder if I will stay long
My name is not enough.

To My Sisters in Delhi

Sister, sister 
Cover your head 
Hide your face; disappear. 
Discard all colour, sound, movement, 
Anything that will make you visible 
To leching men. 

O you are evil sister. 
Why do you tempt them, 
With kept hair, 
With clothes, 
With smiles 
When you know 
You can only look down, 
Lock yourself in 
Or at least, 
Wear a curtain when you go out. 

How can the honourable men, 
(for they are honourable men) 
Uphold the law for you, 
When you break their laws? 

Do not smile, 
Do not engage, 
Do not work late, 
Do not wear colourful clothes 
Or any, save those they have allowed for you. 
Do not walk on streets, 
Do not get in cars, 
Do not befriend, 
Do not speak unless spoken to. 

Exist, breathe, serve, 
But for goodness sake, 
Do not live. 

Remember, 
You are not human. 
You are only a tool, 
To satiate, to satisfy, 
To cook, to clean, 
To bear, to birth. 

They are simple enough laws 
Why do you break them sister, 
Why do you choose to wear what you want, 
Work in places that make you stay late? 
Just quit the job. 
Why do you work? 
Get married 
Your husband will provide for you. 

Why are you friendly, 
Why do you smile? 
You are such a whore. 

You cannot shout ''Rape!'' 
When all they did was succumb to your enticements, 
Of jeans, 
Of polite smiles. 

It's your fault 
That they grabbed you, 
Throw you into their cars, 
Tear off your clothes, 
Slap you, 
Muffle your screams, 
Call you daughters of whores 
Fuck you and smile in glee, 
As you beg in tears of blood and sperm. 
Your fault! 
Your fault! 
Your fault! 

Cheraw

I cannot place it in terms of the bigger picture

but it's somewhere south of where i am;here,

a place that is built on some great mercy of Providence

with houses teethering on cliffs.

We are known for our dance that hav bamboos snapping at ankles,

as our young men and women, dressed in traditions best,hop in and out.

The essence of this dance is the understanding of rythm and balance,

where one wrong movement would lead to_disaster.

                                                                              one-two

                                                                             three-four

                                                                              one-two

                                                                             three-four

This dry and dusty place boasts of small towns and big houses,

with comprehensive differences in warmth and sizes.

Out of these,the hopes of future generations,

hardly able to walk with pants worn at knees,

and shoes that can feed a family for months.

(but what is food compared to the latest fashion)

Subbing identity for brands,a living,breathing advertisment.

and in their coolest,hippiest ignorance,

sing along to an apt tune

"Pretty fly for a white guy"

(O well,you know he doesn't really get it anyway)

                              

                                                                              one-two

                                                                             three-four

                                                                              one-two

                                                                             three-four

We also have our share of democracy's champions;the politicians,

 who in years of election give huge contributions to charity and churches.

(for votes mind you.....keep your salvation)

Then the righteous elders that go home to ignored wives and children,

and illegitimate grandchildren,

that sit around a table for a perfect family portrait,and pray,

to a God that does not live within them.

we also have our revivals,as the crowds go,

in throngs,to see the magic show.

The deaf hear,the dumb speak,the children see,

visions of angels and Christ;slowly,

convincing ourselves of strengh in our shaky faith.

Multitudes would bow in awe at the spectacle

           but,

           if in a single raindrop

           or a humming insect

           you do not see the miracle

           then you do not see God.

                                                                               one-two

                                                                             three-four

                                                                              one-two

                                                                             three-four

A word of praise for our ingenuity,

we do not have liquor here,but we find inventive ways to get high,

off household appliances and medicines.

Mean those meant to fix meant for a fix.

And Jim,poor Jim.

He's hanging on a shoestring.

The diluted blood in his veins ran cold.

His relief from pain became his pain.

And in the songs of mourning and accompanying drums,

mother would cry,"...it's my fault!"

Silent father would whisper,"..it's my fault."

In the corner of each isolated spot,they would discover

repentence,

regain the rythm to the dance,

but Jim,poor Jim,

He is dead.

                                                                              one-two

                                                                             three-four

                                                                              one-two

                                                                             three-four

''Cheers Darlin''

What else can I say? 
Did not the trees look lovely, 
Lapping sunsets and eavesdropping? 
We fed them lies and laughed. 
Laughed, 
As the sparrows, 
As the crickets. 
Our voices clear as the night air, 
The rain that fell, 
Chasing our feet. 
How they danced 
Under those streetlights 
Grasping at our shadows. 
And what of the walls? 
Straining, straining, 
Yet we would not share our songs. 

What else can I do? 
Walk on water? 
Tame a raging sea? 
From this mountain, 
I have seen beyond Jordan and returned 
To tread across ruins, 
To bones once called Lazarus, 
To the last embers of a falling sun 
To them that have seen me laugh 
As a river, 
As a happy tale. 
I grow old 
Amidst these trees and broken streetlights. 
They whisper to the walls 
How I remind them 
Of someone they once knew.

For the Girl in the Bright Red Dress

We could not see you, 
Though you stood right there, 
In a bright red dress. 
We could not hear you, 
Though you broke your voice, 
Screaming into our ears. 
Instead we chose, 
The facade of smiles, 
Blind our eyes, 
To that which made us uneasy, 
Itched under our skins. 
And when your smile turned 
Your laugh, cracked, 
We looked away, coughed awkwardly, 
Waited in silence for you to put your mask back on. 
We carried on, 
Hushing away the darkness, 
Saying ''Tut-tut, show us not of such things.'' 
We should have asked, 
What you felt, 
That you can walk to the edge, 
Stare at the emptiness, 
And not be afraid. 
Now only the heap of lies that have piled up under the carpet remain. 
The kind words flow smoothly from our lips with such veneration. 
As if you were a saint. 
You yourself couldn't say who you were, 
Only that your eyes were not yours, 
Your hands were not yours, 
Your words were not yours, 
That it was someone else's life you were living. 
You had died a long time ago, 
When we could not see you, 
Though you were right there, 
In a bright red dress. 

And Poetry Has No Meaning

and poetry has no meaning. 
I feel. 
I try to comunicate. 
I invariably use words. 
Words with the intensity 
Of a mountain on fire. 
Wrenches up emotions 
From the core of my being. 
Words that are cradled by hopes and beliefs, 
Reeling and stumbling to mean 
More than just what they say. 
Words that speak of 
Desire,despair, 
Anger,anguish, 
Of things that do not sleep, 
Or rest, 
Or die. 
Words that drive a man 
To his knees and scream 
The name of God in a failing voice. 
Beaten, 
Broken. 
Words surrounded by an entire universe 
Of other words. 
But, 
When i speak them to you, 
They become just words. 
Just words. 
I fall apart, 
and poetry has no meaning.

My Little Love Ditty

So you say that poetry is useless,

That literature serves only those whom it interest,

That in the function of life,

It is hair-spray to a bald man.

I will not defend it,

Not raise a word to change

That which you choose to believe.

It will not cure cancer,

Defend the helpless,

Stop the machines of greed.

It will not soothe blistered feet

Running all day,

Tired eyes searching

For one more way,

One more clause,

One more bend,

One more.

It only hurts your head,

With long winded metaphors,

Words that challenge you

To decipher what they may not mean.

It will rage and convulse,

Cry in it's corner,

Forever dying.

But when the evening sun

Caresses these cherry trees,

Faint smells of home

Smoke up from every house,

Lazy stars tossing about

Unnumbered wishes

I am reminded

Of the gentle slant of your hips, 

The softness of your lips,

Eyes that haunt me for days,

And I forget,

Cancer, greed,

The world.

Only silent music, 

Felt,

Noiseless.

Like elation,

Like discovery,

Love 

So useless,

Hair-spray to a bald man.