My daughter thinks time stands still
While she plays with her dog. She’s not
Done licking my hand, she explains, chill,
Mom. It’s late, maths awaits, but what
I clearly don’t understand – the eye-roll
Punctuates the exasperation –
Is how time and tide wait, and no bells toll,
And the earth stills its rotation;
Clock hands twiddle their thumbs, because
The dog and her human haven’t played all day.
And here’s the riddle: Why is it so late, calculus
Takes so long! she wails. This is probably not
A good time to weigh Time taken against
Time spent, and when we wonder where the years
Went, will those hours learning calculus
Help us calculate value-per-lick versus
The short end of homework’s stick?
Author: Giti
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Unnameable II
I remember when my girls were small,
I trained myself never to say their hands
Were soft as flowers. Or that their faces
And smiles and dancing figures brought
To mind roses or lilies or stalks of tall
Rajnigandhas. Not even the thought
Was allowed to enter my heart. A heart
In whose depths lay a memory so wild
-“She was like a flower, my little child” –
A mother whispering of her girl, 2002.
I will never – am never allowed to – forget you.
Arrows To the Heart
I’m three poems behind.
It has become so easy, fun
To see everything in April
As a multitude that holds that one
Poem, a verse, a gem, a find.
Then a poem found me, as
These things will, those words
Insisting on being heard, fierce
Weapons of silence, and now
I can only hear how they pierce
Me to the marrow. In
The multitudes of April, I only see
An arrow.
Unnameable I
Not that many years ago, I wrote
A poem for my daughter who was eight
How she spent hours making paper
Horses. The delicate art of
Origami concentrating her young frame
The wind in their manes a kind of grace.
Today another eight year old face
Asks me how little feet flying
Over hills and grass with a herd
Of horses in her care, are now lying
In a grave seven kilometres away
From a resting place denied her
When the only grace granted her
Was dying.
You Can Only Fix Their Problems For So Long
When you look back on this day, she said,
It will be one of your parenting successes.
I always successfully parent, I snort, you just
Don’t always appreciate it. Well, she said,
Well done today. I probably won’t look back
On this, or if I do, I will have forgotten what
It was that I successfully did. It might be just
As well if the passage of years hid these peaks
And troughs of raising kids. One rarely speaks
In the past tense of one’s parenting, anyway.
As if the present continuous were the only
Tense in which a parent could convey the
Gut-wrench of knowing your kids went
To bed happy at the end of the day.
The Fault In Our Cats
So today the cat fell out
The kitchen window. All
I want to say about
This is, it wasn’t me. I
Didn’t do it. The fall
Doesn’t follow from the fact
That I opened it. Wide.
Or rather – wider. Why hide
The fact that a well cooked
Meal requires ventilation.
Needless to say that the family
That denies any facilitation
In the matter, needed no fervent
Invitation to the heaped platters.
I wish to also place on record
My last words to the lord
Of the manor (who flatters
Himself as innocent of the crime):
Shut the window, I clearly said
As he heaved over in his bed.
Or the cat, I swear to god,
Will fall out. He laughs now,
And thinks it’s funny to point out how
This is one down out of nine.
So I’m saying this for the last
Time: this is everyone’s fault
But mine.
Five Bags Full
The two bags of namkeens
Were eked out over weeks.
My sister felt bad when I told
Her how treasured they were. I
Thought your suitcase wouldn’t hold
So much, she said, and to buy
More would’ve been a waste!
She speaks, I thought, as if taste
Lies only on the tongue, a matter
Of spices and dough. As though
The heart were not suffused
With the sweetness and salt
Of home. So this time, she bought
Five bags. All that they had
At the store. This time I told her not
To feel bad. How could a heart ask
For more.
“Life Continues”: A Truth
Universally acknowledged. Plants
Can be transplanted to other
Courtyards, other keepers,
Creepers are harder, but arches
Have been known to tether
Pillars of entrances together.
And the earth itself, in sooth,
Defies being cornered, demands
That we arch its latitudes,
North to South, altitudes flying
Across separation. No imaginary
Line is a bar. In consolation, Life
Continuously cries – Here we are.
A place to be stable. Here,
Where the round flatness prevents
A slipping off, where
The edge is no bar, no table
No morning mug of tea too far.
Monsoon’s Child in Cold Lands
A day bright blue
Snuggled amidst grey
Months of cold. Reading
Of rain which I think of
As silver, not grey. Too
Bright to hold, this
Day, falling from the grasp
Of rain too far away.
Notes
These days it’s feet.
I know this because within
The lines meant for maths
Or historical facts, or data
From experiments, I find,
Instead, ballet shoes. Tied
Cross-ribboned, crumple-toed.
Northstars, loose-laced,
Casually en point. It’s been
A while since I saw braids
Everywhere, in margins and
Corners, curved about the binding.
I think about this random finding
Of my daughter, in notebooks
That I’ve bought her. Noting
How learning is often a matter
Of reading between the lines.
Giti Chandra 