Pretty Lies

 

Facts fight the lies they chose as their King

Crown adorns the heads that praises sing.

They know not the language of toil

Blind egos blight the level playing soil.

 

Soulless laughter that deserves no audience

Love they receive can trounce any conscience

The 9 to 5 man shudders at the realization

His precious values are irrelevant in Banana Nation.

 

Acrid air chokes the lungs and fuels the pocket

This is where the Zombies outrun the prophet.

A news a day to toy with our time

To not be a brown-nose is the crime.

 

The race is on, the mind is gone

Rats fight the battle; the war long won.

The battered one walk back to the cages

Maps to freedom were on the lost pages.

 

Ashen faces that fail to justify the end

Do not look for excuse to stab your friend.

Sky accepts defeat, it has nowhere to hide

Cloud smirks, it now knows to take a side.

 

The lost bird cannot return home

My God seeks a new tomb.

The masks that hid the pretty lies

Endure ignominy as cruelty flies.

 

The pauper poet tears sheet after sheet

Of ballets on Romeos forlorn on love street.

Destinations merge and lose their address

Anchorless lust for everything survives, nonetheless.

All For You

Specks of dust on my window,

Laugh as I arrange secrets in a row.

A few poems sit idle soaking in Sun,

The breeze wrote flirty letters for fun.

Dreams, seldom real yet come true

A distant island harbours my due.

A restlessness floats around

It's my story that your words sound.

Your habits paint with colours

Sky starts a song for parched flowers.

The grey clouds throw tantrums

Street promises a song on our terms.

I can be your tale, an enigma, a tear

Myriad forms happy to share.

Make me a myth with one embrace

Together the glaciar we chase.

Those nicknames, oh so familiar

Drenched in an intoxicant rare.

Completed verses make no sense

Galaxies become one with that one Yes.

- Sutapa Kar

Here’s A Gift

Do you remember the ‘standard’, pink, floral, gift-wrapping paper used in the 80s and 90s? One that was used across the country for all sorts of gifts, no difference there. You may be moneyed or not, your gift may be worth a few thousand, the wrap paper was the same. It was sort of an equalizer (of course driven primarily by lack of options).

 

Today, after a day ‘dedicated’ at the feet of corporate fiefdom, the fatigued mind finds its way back to memories. Recall all the birthday and wedding parties from those decades when mountains of pink gifts would adorn the room. I tried finding a picture on the great G. Nothing! If you happen to come across one, and you have my number, do share.

 

Recollection is funny business. What was mundane then is recreated with a touch (or more) of magic now. As if some fairy dust was sprinkled on that memory. Back in the days when I was compelled to tuck the gift box in one such sheet, I would squirm and wish for things to change, wishing for a gift-wrapping revolution almost. Now that, variety of options have landed, the mind plays tricks and induces nostalgia.

 

Lack of options, closed economy, small-town sleepiness, or whatever you may choose to term it, the basic and simple did exude a class of their own. They were neat, no-nonsense, served the purpose and taught us a way of life deeply embedded in the philosophy of acknowledging, ‘Enough’. Now, chic, hyper-consumerism drives our lives. Not getting in the merit of this or that. Yet, the era of Limits is, more often than not, romanticized. Wonder why? Does the human mind like glorifying the struggles? Nights spent counting pennies and saving for the rainy day? Who is to say?

 

As we moved from ‘Hum Ne Ghar Chhoda Hai’, to ‘Kabootar Jaa Jaa Jaa’, to ‘Dekha Hai Pehli Baar’, to ‘Tujhe Dekha Toh Yeh Jana Sanam’, the boyfriends and girlfriends were spoilt for choice. The world of wrapping paper was hit by Liberalism. There were the shiny, slippery ones, the pastel ones, the cute ones, or the transparent ones. The pink, floral sheets were relegated to the back shelves and soon to oblivion. Like all else, I was drawn to the dazzle of the neo-wrappers, so much so that I was embarrassed to hand a gift to a friend as it was covered by the Plain Jane pink paper. Well, we are not always proud of our teenage years, are we? Silly years!

 

We all experience flashes from the past, don’t we? Yours would vary from mine. That’s plausible. Where we all converge is the experience of journeying back in time and back and the resulting reverberations. Yes, there is cringeworthy stuff too (we can share notes in person!) and there are these archetypal (or everyday) episodes that elicit a chain of memories and unanswered wishes.

 

As the winter night deepens, I curl up in my grand-dad’s cushy chair, imagining the holiday gifts I may receive. Maybe one of those would be my favourite book, neatly packed in that gift wrap we lost to changing trends. Oh, all our wishful attempts at reminiscing about the past! We are creatures of Hope, you see!

The Grand Story of Grand Parents – Part 1

 

Yesterday, my grandmother’s framed photo fell from the wall it adorned. Yesterday, I watched an Instagram Reel that depicted a ‘dream come true’ event for a young lady who took her grandfather on his first-ever airplane journey. It feels like yesterday that the inevitable truth of life, death, snatched away my beloved grandparents.

 

Nani-Nana, Dadi-Dada/Dadu, as we fondly call our grandmas and grandpas in India (pardon my ignorance around all the names used in different Indian languages to address them), they were my ‘comfort relations’, if there was such a thing. Rebuked by parents? Take your grievance to the grandparents and rest assured, dear parents are in for a piece of age-old wisdom on how to raise children! Mom used the cane? Oh well, that’s like hitting the granny jackpot! Wail with all the lung power, shed the fattest drops of tears and you are in for the day of your life! You name anything, and you get it as a balm for the corporal punishment. The culprit parent may hold the grudge against you and avenge himself/herself and that’s a story for another day.

 

I was a strange kid, at least I would like to think I was. A weird mix of introverted emotions and extroverted exuberance, most wouldn’t quite understand what I was like. The pseudo-mysterious personality was for the one and only time, deciphered by my ‘Dida’ (Bangla for Nani for the uninitiated). She was this uber awesome lady, graceful, kind, empathetic, with this winner smile, shy demeanor, and the wisdom of a thousand ascetics. Yes, you can argue, this adulation is fueled by my evergreen, constant love, and devotion for her, yet the adjectives I choose emerge from a study of past events vis-à-vis the value system we are raised in, the world we live in. I was and still am a fan of this lady, who wouldn’t blink twice before sharing her lunch or dinner with an outsider who may reach her door. If patience would walk the earth in human form, she/he would come a distant second to my Nani. Hours, days, months, and years of embracing my tantrums and demands and those of others around her and never for a nano second uttering a harsh word. All of us, sometimes or the other and some more regularly than others, indulge in life hacks like gossiping and ranting. My Dida is the only one I know, who never ever spoke ill about anyone (in seriousness or jest), that too when she was gifted with this sharp wit and humour.

 

From Nanaji’s modest pension, after running the household expenses, she always had some pennies for this granddaughter, who loved the yellow vanilla cake from the local bakery. For every small win at school or just because she thought I looked pretty in a dress, I would get a box of colour pencils or, hold your breath, lipstick! My mother was worried sick that Nana and Nani would splurge everything on this hyper child and may even spoil her. Yet, over the two decades of my life with her, Dida walked the talk, or should I say, she seldom lectured and only led by example; words and gestures that were intrinsic to her being and always organic.

 

Circling back to demystifying my strangeness, my grandma sensed what I was. She took that secret with her, and I am averse to tom-tomming about it now! The fact that she knew me better than I would ever guess my true nature, was the magnetic pull I felt. She shielded me and at the same time taught me to be brave. One need not be the loudest to shine. It is the purity of our intentions and transparency of our actions that illuminates the world around us, makes it breathable and worth a second glance.

 

Faith can move mountains. I have seen it happen despite my story not having the ‘happily ever after’ ending. Nani was diagnosed with cancer; doctors ruled out any form of surgery or chemotherapy given her existing medical history. Each morsel of food or a spoonful of water that went in would regurgitate with the might of Thor. It was in plain terms, horrific and shattered all of us, except the sufferer. Nani, in all her innocent glory, remained a steadfast believer in what one famous astrologer told her several decades ago that she would never get this disease, ever. So, this lady rallied on for years and her unflinching faith somehow found a way to overpower the deadly cells. Alternative medicines, that were not common then, found their way to her and held her steady for several years, until we hit the roadblock of a kind that proved insurmountable; medical negligence. Well, let’s park that for a different platform and debate.

 

Why am I writing all this, sharing bits of my broken heart as I try to fight the tears all this while? I do not know. Perhaps it was the falling photo combined with the video that sent me on an overwhelming emotional tide and I wouldn’t like to connect all this with ‘Ekta Kapoor’ style dots. Or maybe, it was after several years that I had gathered the courage to hold her photo so close and looked at her pristine face. I was still a student when she moved on, I did not have a salary to take her on an airplane and go visit her hometown in Tripura. I knew she longed to meet her kith and kin (could I get any more old-school?) because I grew up listening to the stories of how, after being married off at a young age, she only visited her father once after. I wasn’t equipped to fill her life with material purchases as any able grandchild would do. All that I could manage were letters that I wrote to her (you remember postcards and inland letters?) narrating stories of hostel life and college rigmarole, how I was practicing, day and night, the miniscule role of a shadow in my college play, my struggle with Tori-Tinda and similar Delhi vegetables. In reply, she would write simple lines blessing me and encouraging me to live my life my way and enjoy what the world had to offer. Profound in the most effortless manner! That was my granny.

 

The last thing I would like to do is project the missing pieces of my life on to you, who is painstakingly reading this. No, I do not envy you as you cuddle up to your grandparents or touch their feet to seek blessing. All that I wish for is that one glimpse of the lady who loved me unconditionally enough to keep me at bay as she breathed her last breath, to untie, one more time, the knot at the end of her saree’s pallu that hid the notes for me, to feel her fingers run through my hair night long as I rest it up. I admit, I do feel the pangs of envy at times.

 

This evening, I repaired the frame, and she is back up on the wall, smiling benevolently at all of us. For all those who are lucky still to have their grandparents, love these oldies and soak in all their rock-solid vibes and wisdom. I may commit blasphemy, yet I am compelled to state that parents can learn a lesson or two about untainted love from grandparents.

 

Once more, the dog-eared letters are neatly folded back and returned to the old jewellery box. I stopped waiting for someone to buy me a box of colour pencils or a red lipstick a long time ago…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Almirah

Maa’s almirah has a magical hold over me. Since the time, I could differentiate between a chair and a sofa, a chance glimpse inside that storage space was enough to sweeten the day for me.

 

The sentiment hasn’t changed much over the decades, despite the almirah shape shifting a couple of times. As a child, every saree, each piece of jewellery, a random letter, or that yellowing picture, was like a revelation, better still, a discovery that promised to explain the mysteries of adulthood. The almirah, like rest of the ‘grown-up’ world was out of bounds for us, the sisters. As the more curious one, who had a propensity for flouting rules and getting into trouble (still do), I tried all the tricks a 4-year-old could conjure to open the locked doors. And one day! My efforts came to fruition.

 

The enchanting realm was thrown wide open. The silks and handlooms and the functional chiffons, all neatly arranged, akin to Maa’s general disposition. We were a middle-class household, still am. That too, one in a far-flung corner of the country. Fancy and expensive labels were a rarity. Yet my parents mastered the art of cherishing and preserving simple and aesthetic objects, be it the china tea set with Kashmiri motifs or the white chiffon saree with mauve flowers. As I revisit those memories while penning this, I am transported to an idyllic world. Who says utopia is a lie?

 

They say, episodic memories are autobiographical memories of specific past events. These are the memories that brain creates by integrating smell with information of space and time. Mine triggers the famous, ‘Proust Effect’ too. Certain fragrances, smells, however faint they may be, carry me to the times I spent secretly admiring Maa’s penchant for tucking natural fresheners between the layers of clothes or inside the locker. Edgy camphor, proud rose, tangy citronella, non-nonsense neem, the odd bay leaf, speck of sandalwood powder, adorned Maa’s almirah long before potpourri started trending. The combination of natural essence with the innate smell of zari threads, silk and linen fashioned an odd kind of assurance that would soothe an otherwise effervescent me.

 

I would not know if anyone who is reading this shares this sentiment or has a similar memory. Yet I am sure there must be those sights and smells that trigger time travel to your favourite season, a special holiday or a birthday. Those that reconnect us to the familiarity we shared with our parents and grand-parents and lost it along with our childhood.

 

Today, Maa is no more young and needs breaks to ease the nagging back pain as she tidies her near perfect almirah. I gaze spellbound yet again.

Mother of All or None?

 

SHE arrives and so have they

The drums roll, the conch blows

Multitude take a solemn bow

Incense announces autumn is here.

 

There SHE stands tall on faith’s dais

The clay eyes still and silent

Life evokes colourful prayers

For those who survived another day.

 

Mothers all around seek answer

The question plagues their soul like cancer

Each breath is a burden of their pain

The price of a smile is not lost in vain.

 

Hollow heart hides the little teardrop

Million faces and not one that is her son

She narrates his tale to the vacant chair

A hint of jealousy glistens in Devi’s visage.

 

Amber is the colour of this season

Salutations for Goddess echo through her courtyard

Drums beat faster, he dances in gay abandon

Guilty each moment of a debt unpaid to the only one.

 

Deity is the same, prayers have altered

Bangles chime the furtive love stories

Let it rain she orders her quivering lips

Rights vermillion bestow, his death strips.

 

Lotus after lotus scrambles to adorn Her divinity

Each dream leaves my mother’ sleep empty

Agony would be music if her prayers could be sung

Peace is unfaithful, a secret inked in Durga’s third eye.

 

- Sutapa Kar

The Story They Chose

The star that smiles at me

Do you happen to know her?

Birds fly into the horizon

Did they carry my secret?

 

That I know you breathe the same air

Though a million miles afar

The dewdrop is back on the leaf

We shall unite beyond the grief.

 

Time and space unaware of the desire

To blend in the midnight sapphire

You hum the song echoing through valley

Let’s piece our stories, shall we?

 

A familiar fragrance tells me again

This is my heaven this is my redemption

Parched, the ocean in my eyes prays

Your being is the only truth that stays.

 

I walk towards the familiar deity

To find myself surrender to the affinity

The smile is the sky above

I reside in the limits of your love.

 

Between the Moon and Sun

You are the debt I yearn

Each moment alive with your light

I live a lifetime for that lone sight.

 

I was darkness’ beloved

My loneliness they disapproved

Faith heals those buried in blame

The sand tells me you wrote my name.

 

Inching towards the other

No promise to be together

Gods descend to bless the heart

Fulfilled is the love with unfinished start.

- Sutapa Kar