AN EXTRACT
REASONS FOR EXISTING
Just because we have rains
out tears don’t stop
Just because there’s sunset
blood doesn’t get dusted
From door to door, there are X marks
someone is missing
and like the story of Ali Baba
we’re trying to find out where
his last expression left its damp print
Just because there’s a door
doesn’t mean he left willingly
his footprints were not seen
a pen lay on the table where that
last scribble of ‘I’m well’ flutter
in an absentminded breeze
Just because there’s a night
the darkness doesn’t go to day
In the bustle of the evening
chai cups cluttering at Ganga Dhaba
half-drawn cigarette butts are being lit
before they die again and get tossed
students are discussing borders and bands
lovers are seeking each other before dawn
only one name is missing in the twilight
Just because there’s oblivion
a memory cannot go to fallen leaves
a mother whispering, ‘Najeeb, mera beta’
a friend raising her fist to his name
the four walls remembering his shadow
shoes, book shelves, and the clock’s tick —
a calendar watching over a lost name
MY NEIGHBOUR IS A GAU-RAKSHAK
Everyone has a gau rakshak neighbour these days
not everyone knows what they look like
we say happy Diwali sirji, and how’s the weather today
we eat cake, madamji makes sherbet when we meet.
I could even have a lover who’s a gau rakshak so tender
that he keeps me from all untowardness of nights.
Our gau rakshak neighbour wears branded jeans
he hates Chinese goods but flaunts a Swiss watch
she too likes kitty parties where Ramdev churan churns
Zara scarves with Kolhapuri sandals for the ladies, kyunki
after all, Musalmanon me hunar toh hai for craft and art
thus my gau rakshak friends make light of life.
When we meet we say pleasantries like the rain
until my inshallah waterlogs their ears, they seem stunned:
You JNU-wallahs are like that only no, they say
a little wanton, a little awaara, somewhat misfit
still I recite Bhakti poetry and often placate the bhakts.
Our gau rakshak neighbour asserts Hindu khatre mein hai
the sky is saffron, the cow mothers turn plastic bags to manna
Our conversations span all greatness of Bharat Mata Shri
then Nirvana becomes a Bengali mithai he offers me with tea.
NAMAMI
the river has descended on our conversation
the river needs no name no evocation
its daybreaks and evenings are silked along its route
hyacinths float up to its fairy span and everything
is folding in for the man river, its red eyes and tears
everything is what they are bending down to cleanse
each palmful of water losing its sparkle in the din
the flotsam too frothy and fickle to be called a blessing
to be offered a chant
namami namami namami
the chorus anyway doesn’t save the dolphins of twilight
the flood still rages forward carrying plastic bags, discarded
condoms, the surf of human excreta, dead cattle, and the elixir
of waste dripping from our human errors
one drop by one drop by one
namami namami namami
the chant doesn’t raise the dead children, their
eyes water-soaked pale flowers, their
teeth clotted in the water’s rush, seeking mothers’ arms
they need no evocation, no chants
the river needs no alms, it needs
only a daybreak, only a course to flow as freedom does
singing
it is me, it is me, it is me
(Namami Brahmaputra was a scheme launched in Assam apparently in reverence of the river Brahmaputra and to create flood awareness. It involved huge expense of taxpayers’ money, fanfare and worship by priests. Later the state was deluged by one of the worst floods in recent memory.)
Bionote
Nabina Das is the author of several books: a short story collection, The House of Twining Roses: Stories of the Mapped and the Unmapped; a novel, Footprints in the Bajra; and three poetry collections, Blue Vessel, Into the Migrant City and Sanskarnama: Poetry of Our Times. She teaches creative writing in universities and workshops.
