When Tara was pregnant for the first time
there was a lot of pressure on her
of having a boy who could carry family’s name.
But making Tara hated by everyone
her first girl was born.
Somehow they accepted her first child by saying:
‘It is just first child, try next time’. .
.
When Tara was pregnant for the second time
the pressure was double this time
of having a boy who could carry family’s name.
But by disappointing everyone’s expectations
and making Tara a bit more hated
her second girl was born.
This time things went differently from last time
and they sighed: ‘Now no excuses, it was your last chance!’ .
.
When Tara was pregnant for the third time
nobody cared about it.
In this occasion it was not them
but it was Tara,
who wanted to have a boy because
she wanted to be loved again.
She prayed day and night
and her baby boy was born.
This is how they, finally, exclaimed:
‘What a pleasant surprise!’ .
.
This is how,
under the glory of boy’s birth
two girls were forgotten.
We didn't speak the same language
She spoke Nemadi and I in Hindi
She appeared to be giddy
Frolicking around her cows
The pallu of the sari covering her head
With a small piece in her mouth
Or perhaps she was merely amused
To encounter someone fascinated with her and her beloved cows
We had a very funny conversation about cows and marriage
That involved wild gesticulating at the cows
She may or may not have cautioned me against turning into a cow
If I remained single for too long
I remember her laughing heartily
Not so much for my reasons for singlehood
But perhaps at the surprising sounds
Of the strange language coming from my mouth
Her mother-in-law then sat down and held her head
Making it very clear what she thought
Of the gibberish that we both had concocted
Perched on my slim wire swing
My claws clenched tight
My beak held high
I see not my usual sight
My street is like my grandma's home
I don't see those mammoth forms
Whose verandahs I perched on
Who gave me water lukewarm
I asked the Coalish Crow
And the minty myenah of suburbs
They asked Bobby Pigeon
And he asked his fellow birds
None knew the news
Why they chose the balcony more
Gave us more pulses and grains
Smiling and humming a lore
Patola peacock all decked in his couture
Swirled, hopped, jiggled and tapped
They didn't come clicking and pointing
From a distance they rejoiced and clapped
I stayed up late
To meet Wisey Owl
He said something about Wickedy Bat
About how he stung and followed the fouls
I spoke to Minty, Coalish and Patola today
The notoriety of Wickedy
Had put the beings in dismay
We called for an evening meet
Arranged rotis, grains and tattered meat
They said we are in this together and strong
we will chirp merrier
Swing by close
Perch on verandahs
Twerk our tails
Be caressed by them
The ship of doom
Will then soon sail
There will always be boats
The thin shards of light stop entering,
Shore is stretched, as if a line without segments,
Spine rests on a needle,
Water swells alternately and pretends to touch my feet,
And when it almost succeeds,
A coracle surfaces.
Things that still take me by surprise:
Toasty sunshine in winters
New and old bird songs
The summer burst of flowers and fragrant weeds
How nature doesn't give in
To humanity's self-destructive tendencies
And the fragile human heart
Birthing little hopes and penny-sized poems
the party
and when i wake
with no aches
on my unusually
comfortable mattress
watch the curtains
rustling in the wind
as if they’ve been
waiting impatiently
to give me a glimpse
of the plant that always
threatens to die
now standing upright
doing better than alright
the sun, kinder than it’s
been the whole week
the posters on my wall
looking their very best
clean dusted and bright
the floor concealing
strands of hair that
always make it seem like
i’m too easy to leave
i will act surprised
give them a warm hug
thank them profusely
for the presents, tell them
there was no need really
i’m just glad they
could all make it to
the birthday party
the professor is explaining the fundamentals of Marx,
as you think about your fridge,
about the small suction that eases into a hushed pull
when you visit it at 2am for some bread and jam,
the translucent crinkle of the cover as you remove a slice
from the dull bed of of the loaf.
he's talking about alienation
and you rewind to your trip to the bathroom,
after your late night snack,
about the creak at the hinges of the door as you close it shut
and the steadying clatter of the toilet seat as you sit down.
he's telling you to submit your response to the essay by the weekend
and you hear the small creak of your bed,
the release of the mattress when you settle into a position,
ready to face the silence of closed lids,
surprised at all the noise an empty house can make.
It can be good or bad
Just unexpected makes it count
And is you get over
It needs to be more extreme
As six month mummy playing boo
At two it might be a trip to the zoo
And five when a visitor brings you a gift
At eleven when I bad weather a friend offers a lift
As a teenager a surprise might be unexpected cash
Or when your mum buys you clothes you agree look flash
By your twenties it might come in the form of promotion
Or meeting someone who like no other invokes your emotion
At 30 it might be how fast your children can learn
Or a surprise trip to somewhere you yearn
But equally it could be your job just got chopped
And to make matters worse your share prices all dropped
By 40 you might have teens of your home
You might have a shock about who they bring home
Then will come the day that they tidy their room
You finally realise they can manoeuvre a broom
In your 50s their exam results bring pleasure or pain
Or when you step on the scales five more kilos you gain
Inheritances May start to come your way
And after 20 defeats on the road your team win away
I cannot go further as 50s where I’m at
Just hope I’ll make 60 and won’t get killed by a bat
Reckon surprises in retirement might be so much fun
I know someone who’ll be surprised if I live for one.
I pretend to understand brothers,
in vain,
I could never;
how their skin creates
islands of war
inside the peaceful
sea of flesh that they
were birthed into
by the mothers
who’ve survived battles
of bodies, both
their own and others’
with a conquering affection,
I won’t understand
how their mouths could play
a ruthless deception
against all the love
that they were fed
and to all the lullabies
that were endeavoured
to send an anxious boy to bed
when he couldn’t scowl or stare
an indifferent demeanour
into the distraught eyes
of a mother
who’s now too tried,
too tired to sail into the isles
of the forlorn heart
that she can not save anymore.
Every once in a while though
the sea is let ashore
the boy comes by
and manages
to let himself pour
into whatever he doesn’t despise
at that time
a hug, a help, a word
or even an unguarded smile.
The last one comes as a rarity
But it’s the mother’s
favourite surprise.