Anju Makhija Poems

Sleep, my child, knowing
the stories are not yours,
nor mine, merely
epitaphs of time.

Memories retreat
to wherever they go,
an oasis of their own,
abandoning
all that never was,
all that never is.

And it feels as if bells
ring in temples,
ring in temples.
And elephant Gods
climb circus rings,
climb circus rings.
And the vendors of liquors
tuck it all in,
tuck it all in.

In your dreams, my burrowing.
Tell me, my child, with your eyes
so still, mind locked in:
does it begin all over again?
...

‘One rupees, one pin,
two rupees, two pin,
three rupees, three in.'

Little hands place
an oversized tray
on my lap.

‘One rupees, one pin,
two rupees, two pin,
three rupees, three pin.'

She smiles at me,
black teeth jagged
like stones beneath the tracks.

‘One rupees, one pin,
two rupees, two pin,
madam, five rupees five pin?'

Five rupees for Glucose biscuits,
five rupees for police hafta,
five rupees for an Amitabh Bachchan film.

‘Angrezi Madam,
want pin?
Five rupees, six pin?'

Conveyor-belt efficiency:
she moves the oversized tray
to the next lap.

‘Ek rupaya, ek pin,
do rupaya, do pin,
teen rupaya, teen pin.'

Hafta : bribe
...

Behind the trunk of a mango tree you were seen
vigilantly guarding rice fields; later,

collecting dung, rounding up cows,
you munched dry rotis, beat your daughter-in-law.

A farmer never leaves his land, they said,
till rice is safe from man and beast.

When bins are full, rice mixed with dry neem,
he will leave. The old man is dead, not asleep.

That night, I read about witty Veetal,
short-tempered Zhoting, man-eating Hadals

and other Konkan spirits in The Times. Next night:
ghostbusting, to dispel tales spreading like flames

in the night. Dark face, still as a scarecrow,
leaning against a haystack, you were seen

by all but me. Disconcerted then, now I see the point:
dispelling superstitions city folk like;

but, to believe the imagined to be true
can be a way of life, a fact, a truth.


Neem: a bitter leaf
...

Small please, grey and white cells, pink too
(with bits and bytes).
Make the numbers even, enough odd ones.
Mould the skull with RDX plastique, the stick-fast variety.
Set the teeth firmly, rattling disturbs infants.
Keep the tonsils, I like to trap irritants for happy days.
One ear is plenty, bomb blasts are deafening in stereo.
Make the nostrils narrow, like a bone marrow;
air enough to live.

Now the main request: give me a third eye
(like the one on the truck).
A bright red light between two headlights
Peering through the throat of a village road.

That's all.

Brandy, I and the third eye. In the moonlight…
coconut trees, omnipresent Gods; two Gods too many.
Papayas, pulpy breasts; squeeze them dry.
Falling twigs, a shower of snakes;
swallowing them, I emerge Medusa!

Shedding my skin, I recoil in the armchair,
lost to the world.

Get the picture?
I'm Lao-Tzu smiling at Mona Lisa.
...

The portrait, shrouded in plastic,
hangs in the loft like an exhibit
in the Gallery of Modern Art.
Inside, a face, bust size,
patchy skin, penetrating eyes,
mole below lips, eyebrows thick,
singular features in an innocuous face.

Terrifying, this packing away
in frames, polythene, white cloth;
the portrait resembles a monk
in saffron robes—
the silence never wears off.

Moth-chewed lips,
mildew around nose,
white ant devoured ears,
spider webs, chin to forehead.

Left to their fate,
colours bleed, the blush fades.
The portrait mutely marks time.
...

Every summer, we laze under the mango tree
discussing unpatented recipes. When raw mangoes
drop on our head, we pause
to appreciate nature's bounty.
Then on to peeling, chopping, salting,
boiling, spicing, bottling…

Will the sorcery work?

By year's end, we hope, when
the pungent brine matures to its prime.
The zing depends on turmeric balancing the tamarind,
the chili complementing the amchur,
and if the asafetida poured in candle light
late one night works for pickles
as if seldom does for couples, apart
since the first pickling season.

The alchemy has rarely bewitched,
Jaggery sours, vinegar sears the tongue.
To change the recipe we've tried
with old ladies' advice,
but nature moves inexorably,
and life proceeds predictably
beneath the mango tree.
...