for zoy, wherever she may be

If we were to measure in birthdays

this love we have built

Would it look small?

or impossibly large?

Because there are so many moments

I have missed

but not a single day

I have spent away from you. 

of things we raised

In the sunny echoes of our childhood

we raised, you and I,

A dozen squat caterpillars

that lifted  their heads

from the thick green ooze of bhindi

in annoyance at our loving intervention

(to little avail).

With the mangoes came Fudge

and her mangy brood

an ugliness that nestled smugly

in the sun kissed perfection

of sweet smelling hay

and the sun burnt perfection

of little hands.

A small shoal of new born fish

held us in stunned wonderment

and mild horror

for the brief seconds

of their rather eventful lives

before they were eaten by their somewhat grumpy mother.

(With children, this is the way to go

mine maintains).

In the sunny echoes of our childhood

We raised, you and I,

A cat called rabbit

A dog with an ancestral name

A family of love

And somewhere along the way, each other. 

Weather report

The sky here has an undecided clearness.

The careful migration of my woolen flock

now a slow meander through the shifting seasons.

It is difficult to tell

what it is like where you are.

You seem at peace with the atmosphere.

But then

you always were a friend of the winter.

I haven taken to photographing trees

I do not show my pictures to anybody.

Other people take your picture now.

I do not know their names

and I do not think to ask.

The sky has an undecided clearness

you smile at distant strangers

and in my hidden gallery

a secret forest silently grows.

transit

When falling asleep on the metro

always make sure

to get a seat at the corner.

(nobody likes a shoulder leaner on-er)

If you can

ensure that your metro

is lit in yellow.

White light never reminds you of your bedroom

and in dreams, at least,

you should get to go home.

Forearms make for handy pillows.

But even the most patient

and gentle and kindly of forearms

will eventually leave you, for sleep

as you have left it, for sleep

And waking up sans vital limb

is never too much fun.

When falling asleep on the metro

do not worry about missing your station.

Your body is a friendly co passenger

it will tap you on the shoulder

at just the right moment.

It knows when it is time to go. 

C - 52

My grandfather crushes

a lemon leaf

between the thumb and forefinger

of the nicest hands in the entire world

and extends them towards me

in his familiar little version

of botany lessons.

Can you smell it?

he asks.

We are standing on the tiny square garden

he has lovingly tended

for as long as I can remember.

Above, they are stringing up Diwali lights

the same ones we have had for years.

In the evening, we will use

our unskilled hands

to draw dreams in coloured chalk

that the whole family

will come out to admire.

My mother will teach me

how to make tiny feet

with just some paint

and the side of your palm

so that the goddess will know where to come

and we will stay blessed for another year.

We will put on our bright, itchy clothes

and smile

for picture after picture

that will hang on fridge doors

around the world.

And when the children’s games are over

the cards will come out

and we will jest and quarrel and laugh

late into a perfect night

in the only home we have ever known.

But for now,

My grandfather crushes

a lemon leaf

between the thumb and forefinger

of the nicest hands in the entire world

and extends them towards me.

Can you smell it?

he asks

And I tell him I can. 

Tarapore

I found the longest earthworm

In the history of the universe

And yelled for you to come see.

You stepped on it

With your black plastic school shoes

And said

now there are three.

She has decided to work.

She will miss the little things, they say.

But when everyone is asleep

She brings out her inks

and we paint.

They are the most beautiful colours I have ever seen.

The three of us wait by the street

It is an exciting time

We have never had a car before.

I lie in the back

If I look up, I can see the whole sky.

My mother holds three slender pods in her palm

If you spit on them, they will pop

She says.

I look, disbelieving, at the spit that pools

In the hollow of her broad smooth palms

They will pop

If you spit on them

She says.

And they do. 

Atlanta

I have not written to you

In all the time

since we left the ocean.

Yet I am certain

that I write to you constantly.

Every thought a postcard

in my mother’s writing

Addressed as much to you

as it is to myself

and to our ocean.

I think I would like it

if I could measure our closeness

In things that I can hold

In paper cuts and paper boats

In your intermittently dotted I s.

But I have not written to you

and I do not think I will.

Perhaps you could do it for me.