the day calls out
my name to
climb out of
and make the choices
that will be me
to break through
limbs and torso
set foot on dust
face up to
the slow disintegrating calm
to own up and
to set forth
to not look behind
to think a lot
and to remember
finds you irrelevant
to the ocassion
to perceive time
in shape shifting
Little things bother me
like hot pink walls
in subway cars.
Macy’s big shoes
allover sale wallpaper
plastered head to toe
in Grand Central,
and your fruit stand.
I’m sorry to have to tell you,
but it’s the last time
I’m gonna buy your fruit; I mean,
I want to support you
No walls or floor or store to speak of,
just a shitty umbrella over
a failing pyramid
of milk crates
with the fading logo
of a has-been bank;
it’s my kind of commerce
but let’s face it
your oranges are rotten
your persimmons never ripe
And then there’s Felix
who has to stand there
stuffed inside a sandwich board
” Please can you help me
with some spare change
I am raising money to buy myself hands “
Stuck on the platform of the one train,
just to beg for the Pity;
I mean generosity of strangers,
to buy himself limbs,
(to work for a living?)
Oh and let me guess
now we’re pretending
to be civilized,
putting a European tone
in the subway.
You have got to be kidding.
I still can’t hear a thing.
(A Poem by Suzanne Goldenberg)
Also Read: Patti Smith on Loving Books
Artwork: Melting Sculpture
Artist: Sharad Bharadwaj ( The Blue Painter )
It has been long I know. Ever since I boarded that fateful flight on July 6, I haven’t had a second to reminisce. The earlier plan was to stop, see, go but Delhi enamoured me, most unexpectedly. As soon as I landed in all my hippiedom, the leviathan on my back, the daunting red stroller at my heel, I was gathered and buried deep in the arms of lush green & earthy brown.
The city after seven years looked like it had been manicured into a model for lavish living. Each red brick and cream coloured dome was breathing new history, writing a new future. If kindness could be measured, I’d be drowning. From renewing old sinews to weaving new wreaths, from the newly renovated “non-smoking” India Coffee House in Connaught Place to the mushrooming liberal East side.
I witnessed the urban underbelly in the graffiti adorned subway selling Tribal handicraft, I tasted Korea in their cuisine, soju (Korean vodka) & graphic novels in the seedy by lanes of garish “Punjabi” Pahadganj. I found an isolated English cabin called Sakleys in the midst of concrete buildings. As my friends kindly awarded me with the title of “cloud carrier”, we revelled on roads mirroring generous dark clouds.
There were pleasant incidents & experiences, then there were events that wringed my heart with regret for ever doubting the Dil (heart) in Dilli (Delhi).
My friend and I fixed an appointed hour to meet at The Monkey Bar in South Delhi. With my obsession for arriving on time, I was there early waiting for her.
A pleasantly smiling young man in the restaurant uniform walked up to me,”Do you play the guitar?”
I glanced at the tall black cover standing erect behind my chair, “I’m still training on my own”.
“I used to perform in a band in Manipur. I had to migrate to Delhi for money,” wistful glint of a smile.
“Would you like to play?” I offered. He jumped at the opportunity and played a local love song. His colleagues thronged to our table, lavishing attention & conversation as I waited for my friend to arrive. Next thing I know, word had spread far & wide till it reached the owner, coincidentally a friend’s acquaintance and I was on my way to getting pampered fancifully at their premium eatery!
After a brief stay with this friend in Gurgaon, I set out to brave the potholed, monsoon frothing streets. An eager cab driver pulled close, it was an Easy Cab with an aged, smiling face behind the wheel. I propped in with no knowledge of a cheaper means of commute.
“How much would it cost me from here to East Delhi?”
“Roughly Rs.1100”, he said calculating quickly.
Sensing my disappointment, he offered, “I could drop you till the next metro station, it would be cheaper & quicker.”
He looked genuinely willing, but the skeptic in me wanted to smell a motive.
I smiled instead, “thank you”, the wheels set in motion.
“Are you not from Delhi?”
I decided to be honest, pushing my boundaries, “No I’m from Bombay.”
As though a switch flicked, “You’re from outside? Let me show you around Gurgaon”. Before I could protest he’d wheeled us into a less crowded lane which looked safe but desolate. There he began waxing eloquent of the skeletal structures which would soon turn into architectural marvels. He insisted I stop at a popular eatery for their unmatched Biryani. Had I not been attending to anxious friends I would’ve indulged.
“I’ll drop you to the nearest Delhi metro station. The station in Gurgaon is always crowded.”
I mutely agreed mentally calculating the money in my wallet.
After myriad stories of Assamese tradition (Did you know Assamese people add Tsri before their name to signify that the person is alive and Tsargiya for the dead?), his hometown in Assam & his 25 years of driving on Delhi streets, we finally arrived at Chhatarpur station.
“How much is it?” I enquired, partly pleading in my head to not exceed the currency in my wallet.
He chuckled, “I turned the meter off long back madamji. You are a guest here, you need not pay.”
How would you react if you were in my shoes? I was simply dumbfounded, even partly relieved. I still insisted to pay something for I had run out of words to acknowledge the goodness of his heart. He accepted a hundred rupee note and began to hand me back lose change.
I guiltily resisted but he politely insisted,”Keep it. You’ll need it at the metro counter.”
I thanked him profusely and walked up to the counter. He was right! The change was more than sufficient, he had returned a lot more than the metro fare.
Over that one hour metro ride, I couldn’t stop smiling. Each time I felt there was a hint of a wayward glance or a wanton comment, I battled it inwardly with the strength of his kindness. It was like my Petronus charm.
I fall back upon your wisdom Qi. The world is a mirror, a reflection of your fiercest fears and brightest beliefs. I hadn’t just survived the city, I had conquered it. I allowed Delhi to cradle me to its bosom and in return, I’d found a new home.
My friend says kindness is like a boomerang, you put it out in the world and it finds you, no matter where you are. I promise to put it out without inhibition, I promise to harness the wisdom of affection, silently, unendingly. I promise to spread your legacy.
Until the next turn in the road,
Artwork By Judit Szakter
Amidst shrieks and wailings, Raghav opened his eyes to look up at weird plasticky tentacles.
He could not understand what it was because he was all of 4 months old again. This intervention was supposedly a device by his worried mother to pacify him.
It was a dingy room with orange walls which peeled at multiple places. Accentuated by the bleak bulb, was the orange jarred young Anita’s head.
Odds and ends lined open shelves engraved in the walls like morse code. “Why doesn’t he stop crying!” she spat.
It really was a mistake.
Tut-tut-tut. Raghav knocked at his son’s door.
A dull yet sturdy thud had interrupted the early morning musings. There was no answer. The blue walls of the swanky drawing room somewhat resonated with his mood.
It had been a while since his son had spoken to him in more than two syllables. While he had given up on any reprieve, he knew he was failing in his responsibilities as a father. He knew nothing about his 25 year old son’s friends, work or habits. When had they steered so apart? The mad rush to earn money had managed to do what he had feared all along.
Raghav hadn’t yet opened the door.
Shades of Grey
Anny held Raghav tightly while their bodies throbbed in embrace. She hadn’t been touched so, ever in her life before. The pain was blinding but blissful — the euphoria only punctuated by the greyness of the ceiling she saw above her. They trailed to the edge of climax; almost animalistic in the throes of passion. “We should have used protection,” said she panting between heavy breaths. Raghav wasn’t worried. She was not his first in this bed.
He detested condoms.
Loud music filled the boneyard. Dirt on the floor reverberated in rhythm. Tiny
specks of cocaine, as white as the walls around, slid from a packet on to the table.
It had been a few years since his last time during college. According to his friend, this lot was the most face numbing, he had ever tried.
Raghav was eager and jittery more from the lack of layers in the cold room, than apprehensions. He made 4 lines with a practiced hand and cleaned off every last grain on the glass top.
It hit his head like electricity. It felt different. Numbness overpowered him and he fell to his death unceremoniously.
Tut-tut-tut. Raghav knocked at his son’s door…
By Ankit Kumar