dinner conversation
lately jack and jill have not been musical.
she watches as his withered fingers
drop twinkling shards on the carpet,
thinks about that time he rhymed
and she moved with him. she tries now to salvage,
but fallen water mocks.
jill makes small talk and even better apple pie.
he grabs on, spoon-to-lip,
then reels, remembering.
those were the days she smiled
but then the usual something happened,
and through bills and balding
her smile disappeared with his eyesight,
one scale at a time. familiarity skims glass-rims
and contempt hides inside where it is safe.
“please pass the cheese,”
and he does not know but over apple pie her hands
want to push him again, to watch his face
fall into his food and this time, stay there.
Prakash, the Teller
The city swarms
A broken home a rape victim here and there
A hundred good luck charms
Gone wrong. Prakash is going home
To the wife in-laws children radio set
Crackling out the news - a man murdered here and there
Where are my chappattis
The whistle sends elastic feet running
The 5:53 Virar fast is leaving the platform
With a thousand unbalanced accounts
Inside it.
Span and Trestle
I
I was born a hyphen.
‘Pari’ was too Gujju for my dad,
His ancestors were best friends
With the Britishers,
All buddy-buddy, almost-white.
Gujjus were much darker,
But my mother and father married anyway.
One-two-ka-four, four-two-ka-one
My dad would sing in rare lapses
Of Hindi, Gujarati, or Marathi.
I peppered my life
With superheroes and invented men
With long hair on streets with no trees.
This wasn’t exactly Bollywood –
I replaced trees with air,
What my mom called Bombay haze,
The blanket that makes airplanes
Look like tiny Arks balancing atop
The yellow flood of city lights.
At night, knives began
To fly and sounds became
Muffled. My dad gave me Grimm
But instead I read the one where
Hedgehogs called Hans prick white women
With names like ‘Beauty’ and ‘Talia’.
Only the witch had a chance,
The old shriveled woman with needle-face
And mirror-eyes, who would jump
Into a vat of toads and adders
To keep up appearances.
A Pari with a twist.
II
When I came here,
It was as if I had stepped into a mirror
And was suddenly left-handed.
I was still Pari but the streets had trees,
So my heroes went into hiding.
The sun was the size of a marble,
Made pitiful by the cold.
I sold my chappals
For an accent to wear in America,
Opened my mouth into a silent O
And tried to drown out echoes
Of my mother with A La Mauve lipstick.
My parents cried when I left,
The spoken We know you will make us proud, beti
And the unspoken Don’t you dare bring home
A white man.
Date
Sushi with him made my mind wander. He talked capitalism and I watched the eels lash out, struggling to get out of the sealed rice packs, their collective fates. I sympathized but explained I couldn’t do anything about it. He nodded because he thought I was talking to him.
When Salma Hayek wore that green dress in Frida, he leaned over the edge of his seat groping for body parts, ending up with an arm-limb and a kneecap. Later, when we strolled down the street, I complained about the lack of curves and the smell of beer and I got drunk and felt fat.
Sex with him was a conversation with myself. I invented pidgins with all kinds of intelligent life from planets in distant galaxies, all the aliens said I was a linguistic genius. He snorted loudly, and I whispered “Goodbye!” He said “What?” and I said “Nothing.”
A Lemon Song
Percy’s Kingfisher is cold, defensive and familiar,
Like his touch, or the daily 83 bus to Mahalaxmi.
We are addicted to different things, planets drawn
By separate gravities, both never quite getting there.
He designs book jackets with overexposed gods and corpses.
He understands Bombay’s waste, he is part of it.
To cabbies and lovers he is Sahib, skilled at giving
Directions. To the bar he is a pillar and a tab.
His Parsi lineage travels along his upright back, burns
A hole through his veins and dissolves in his beer.
The city coughs with him and echoes
Fan outwards into Dadar, Churchgate, Parel.
I should have quit you long time ago he mouths Zeppelin,
Fingers hanging loose from their hinges, riffing air.
Pledge
By his fingers when they are cupped. Unbent, they are knitting needles that stab lines and points.
By his eyes when they are quiet. Roused, they are two ringleaders at a circus, each trying to clamor until even lions quiver on their stools.
By his hair when it is long. When he cuts it, he lets go of something and forgets to set aside the scissors.
By his mouth when we have company. Alone, it is so silent a wasp could live there and would not think to bite him.
By his body when it throws no shadow and cannot blame the sunlight.
The Curse
It was not to sleep
For a hundred years, but to wake
To a strange man’s lips.
You can’t cut your hair
Or what will the prince grab when
He comes to save you?
The valiant suitor
Will brave the forest but
Curiosity kills the girl
And confuses her
Desire for a dance with
Lust for a king’s son.
