Courtesy WIiki Commons
Malashri Lal
Amaltaas in Summer
The heat defying Amaltaas
Watches over troubled strangers–
Scarves wrapped around their head,
Umbrellas unfurled
Souls shriveled more than the summer warrants.
Is the thirst only in parched throats
Or deeper in a barren heart
That beats mechanically but loses its spiritual rhythm?
Water, paani, jol, the cries of dried skin
Peeling off the bones of wasteful living
Dried bauries, wells and drains
Arid, caked with the blood of dried garbage.
Only the Amaltaas roots, meshed underground
Thrust their tendrils into the earth’s sinews below.
Sucking moisture from the granular sand, desperately.
The golden flowers pendent in the sun, mock the traveler
Plump, succulent, beacon-like, they tease with
The promise of Water
Where there is none.
****
Courtesy: Fine Art America
Anju Makhija
Abandoning the Farmhouse
Bristles pierced the skin,
tore the flesh apart,
we were forced to depart
like weeping village daughters.
My wrinkles etched deep,
spread like spider webs,
acid gushed up.
Leaking pipes, cracked tiles,
broken book shelves, fading pages,
decay and death extended
vicious, wayward arms.
Life closed in.
I watched the house struggle
– agitated, not knowing its fate –
would Auroville dreams be lost?
The blissful greenery
coaxed us to stay.
Unable to patch the shreds
of our lives,
we left.
Squirrels scurrying up banyan trees,
Tara bai sharing modaks, serving tea.
Good times, tense times,
– all the times we had –
were they real?
**
Standing at the window,
you gazed into the distance.
The present seldom mattered,
tomorrow’s news stories did.
Where was the body then?
A piece of flesh, uncared for,
a vehicle for your creativity?
Torrential downpours blur views,
wet clothes hang shapeless,
rain washes away burnt potash
scattered in far-away fields.
The wetness evokes images,
of damp, alarming x-rays.
Each breath a veritable struggle.
I do not fear death, you said,
I do not fear sleep.
The grass will dry this summer,
I must weed myself out. Neither
your ancestors lived here, nor mine.
When a house does not let go,
does it mean we always belonged?
I am anxious to wrap up histories,
shelve papers, laminated degrees.
Files do not fold like worn-out clothes,
prompting me to linger on.
What is forgetting and departing,
–a way of surviving?
I miss you. You would understand.
Everything has to end, I know.
Do endings cease with time?
The future is here, wrapped in fear.
**
Sandalwood turned to ash,
I watched your name
unwritten by time. Perhaps
it’s fruitless to revisit homes.
Worms emerge from the mud,
new born pups arrive, eyes shut.
There must be other lives,
death dare not confine us.
I grip the table, I am alive
and you are beside me.
My pen gives voice
to unedited dialogues,
and known feelings.
Love reaches beyond words,
I know.
*******
Malashri Lal is an academic and creative writer who lives in New Delhi and Jaipur
Anju Makhija is a poet, playwright, translator and columnist, She has won several national and international awards for her poetry in English.
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