Going Away

There was a time, I used to leave the house without a thought.

Pack food and clothes and gifts; put trinkets/valuables away,

make provision for the dogs, leave money to pay for milk.

Then climb into the car and zoom off, spirit free,

filled with excitement, shivering, a little jittery

And those mumblings of quick prayers for everyone's health and safety,

and many wipings away of unreasonable tears.

Now, even more unreasonably, I linger in the bathroom,

staring at my half-used soap, the nightclothes behind the door.

I miss myself already. She's gone. 

I look with absent eyes.

The everyday lipstick that I won’t be taking with me tomorrow,

the to-do list (under a magnet) on my cupboard,

inside, a saree bought in 2018 awaits 'a suitable occasion' to be worn;

and one I stopped wearing years ago but never threw away,

because it was a gift from my mother.

A bag of blouse-piece fabric waits for the good tailor I never found.

My ongoing knitting projects, trunk stuffed with bags of wool,

my diary, its pen-cum-bookmark, the writing on the pages.

They all tell of my presence - and my absence – in each room.

Reassuring, these signs of unfinished business: they say, “You will be back”,

and yet somehow these days, each going-away has become more difficult.

The Waiting Blues

This work of art by my very dear friend Sangeeta Mahajan goes so well with my lines below. You can view more of her photographs on Instagram @fotografistudio_brisbane

An aging face stares out of the mirror
with eyes that burn from looking too long

You're so tired, you're confused,
You've a boarding pass to nowhere
And you're in the wrong queue

You've dropped your coffee cup again, now
See the loneliness seep into your bag and shoes

You saved your luggage but you've lost your way,
Unravelled more than you knitted in a day

But when they come, you'll let go
When they come, oh they'll free you when they flow,

Yes they'll come, they will come, oh they'll come, when you need them then they know

Sometimes tears, 

Sometimes tears,

Sometimes tears are your best friends.

On The Verge

Even on very bright days such as these

She looks into an abyss and she sees

Old age and death - inevitable,

 both, and infinitely sad.

You cannot choose. And so you think: 

As long as I'm alive and growing old,

I will see others die, while I remain and grieve.

Survivors have to live with being bereaved.

One more gone and one more gone

And after all these years you miss someone -

What would they have thought of this,

And what would he have said to that?

You dream - a chance of meeting up again?

A dying hope, a deadened wish, a dead end.

Yesterday's Song

 Pieces of sky coming down with the raindrops, 

Clouds form: shining mirrors on the grass. 

They settle down until the sunset's fingers reach down and pull them back up again. 

Shower's over, show is done. Shower's over, Sunday is gone.

 

Happy Holidays

 Rooh Afza summer starry nights,

Winter sun cricket commentary days.

The Fear

Is this the fear that mother felt,

That soldier's widow, keeping up his family's tradition

She reared her only child to join the army one day too

Is this the fear, that little girl whose father's at the front,

"Grandmother, is my Papa staying in your house these days?"

Is this the fear that Mother felt in 1947?

She saw them burn a man alive

A knife and chilli powder at the front door her defence

Her baby daughter sleeping through the August afternoons.