Srijato

It's absolutely true that God eats apples with his rice
Those of us who have seen the man up close know
Every morning, disguised in a lungi and shirt, he
Buys vegetables, prawns, and so on, before
Reading the newspaper with his high-powered glasses
His wife goes to work, they have no children, he
Manages to pass the afternoon and evening in sleep
He sleeps because he has to stay up every night
In the poky living room by an oilstained light . . .
A brass plate of rice on a three-legged table
At which God sits and eats, but not just the rice
Two or three apples turn up suddenly on his plate
It's not a big deal, happens every night, inevitably
But before you know it the number of apples rises
As the night deepens, they no longer fit on the plate,
Apples are heaped on the table, floor, everywhere.
His wife sleeps, the fridge sleeps, the TV glows blue . . .
He is not perturbed. One by one, patiently, he eats
The bunch of rotten apples, their pus oozing out
God eats them all by himself, staying up all night
The apples we don't eat but pass on to our maids . . .
...

(After watching Il Postino)
The postman you had befriended
Gathers dry leaves now and
Sings an unfamiliar tune to himself

I'm looking for sustenance in end-rhymes
I've bought sleep, a broken moon, wicker chairs
Wondering how long it will be to tranquillity

The lake whose shores you used to wander on
Is as dry as a stone which I've put in a ring
In the worthless hope that my luck will turn

Colour-coordinated scraps of flattery in the morning
Solitary walks in the afternoon . . . How will I
Write you letters in my language anymore

The city air is a bilious green, the trees, poisonous
I refer to writing as a bad habit now
Breaking old glass panes with new pebbles

Only an enchanted madman, lazy, gaunt
Gathering dry leaves all day
The postman you had befriended
...

Wrinkled skin. Age? Must be three or four hundred
Like dark circles beneath the eyes, the western
Hemisphere engraved on the shell, so extraordinary
But absolutely silent now after all those wars
Won't listen, won't speak, won't look either
We only gather in a crowd every evening
Eating small portions of that old story
Vanished phrases, broken words, missing letters
Still we eat the story, sharing it amongst ourselves
Thousands of years ago, in some race or the other,
Once, yes, once, I had defeated the hare.
...

The problem is that Madan has not been speaking since
This morning. Absolutely silent. Perched on a wall
He's feeding dogs, birdwatching, but no, not a single
Word. At first no one gave a damn. But when it became clear
Even late in the morning that Madan, who untiringly offered
His considered opinion on everything from a short run to Pokhran, had still not said a word, rumours began to fly
People gathered in ones and twos around Madan, who was
Oblivious, impassive. Some said, "It's the shock of love"
Others, "This is what comes of thinking too much" And so on
But when Madan didn't utter a sound despite the crowd
They got busy trying different ways to make him talk
"How about some tea, Madna?" asked Keshta. Madan was silent.
Debu-da said, "Look Madan, there's Mitali." Madan was silent.
Nidhu decided to take a risk. "Madan is a baaaas . . .
. . . tard." Madan was silent. Madan was silent, silent, silent.
Now the people got angry, it started with raw abuse
Then they tugged at his clothes, and finally they spat on him
And now, in the evening, the situation is so bad that
Nearly a hundred grown men and kids are sitting by his feet
Tearing their hair out, sobbing, writhing on the ground
While Madan just keeps feeding biscuits to the dogs, and
Constantly counting birds
...