Final sum

 

Some things I wished for – a guava tree,

a small, stone fountain on a balcony,

fragrant green herbs plucked fresh out of a pot.

Some wishes came true and the rest did not.

 

A cowrie shell from a faraway coast,

a smooth, round pebble from a river I’ve lost,

feathered clouds, perched birds from some childhood zone.

Some were granted, some had to be foregone. 

 

A blooming trellis – or just one climbing vine

on a porch or pillar that felt somewhat mine

under skies of black pearls, rinsed in starlight.

Some were given easy, some never by right.

 

A painting of a deck with an easy chair.

The final sum of what is, and isn’t, there.

This above is the first part of a triad of 14X3 poems, something I thought would take me away from the doldrums and dismals currently prevailing.  Counting blessings, by any name  including poetry, has a remarkable mood altering ability. 

However, it did bring into focus one of the things that will never be - a trip to catch up with a childhood friend. We've been talking of a reunion of the school expat alumni for years, it's practically impossible for all the stars to align, so widely dispersed we all are now from the origins of our friendship, from Australia through the subcontinent to UK and North America. 

This particular friend had settled in Australia. We caught up on Facebook in the 2010s, we texted and chatted plenty, planned and plotted for a face-to-face meeting. 

Then it happened that I had to go and live in Fiji for a couple years, I was excited because it was only a short flight to go see her. But my own family situation stopped that from materialising. I came back without the much longed for trip.   

Yesterday I got the news that she has passed away. Way too soon. What can one say? The final sum is arbitrary, not open for re-evaluation and not in our individual control. There's no option to give it a pass either. 

Rest in eternal bliss, dear Nalini. We'll catch up on the other side.

Vibe

 

You come back and come back and every time

you plaster yourself flat to the doors and walls,

you snatch at the silver threads of tramlines,

you clutch  at the bricks and stones, the road signs,

but you’re still separate, not part of the whole

and they say that you haven’t come back at all.

 

Half the people are gone, there’s a new tenant.

The kerb’s a strange colour, the lamp post’s three pronged,

there’s a swank new park and a waterfront.

Gone too is the ice cream shop – your childhood haunt.

All the places where you seamlessly belonged.

Everything’s changed. And everyone feels wronged.

Well, it's not rocket science - every time someone leaves his hometown for any substantial span of time, both the home and the town, the people who stay, the person leaving - all change irrevocably, there's no coming back. Not to the people, not to the spaces. And the one who leaves is not the same person who returns. The whole thing is an exercise in expectation management. 

But the transition shouldn't be this hard. Kolkata is still reeling from the murder/rape of the young doctor last month. There are on going protests, the involvement of the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) to investigate the case ordered by the Calcutta High Court as there were trust issues with the Kolkata Police, there are allegations of evidence tampering against the police and the suspicion that they were shielding the master mind. There are calls for the resignation of the Police Commissioner and the Chief Minister. The Supreme Court of India has taken suo moto cognisance and hearings of that are also on going. The opposition parties are making hay the most of it while the clouds are thick, ordinary citizens are outraged, upset and quite beside themselves. There have been protests for justice across the country and also across the world in solidarity.  India has its own equivalent of the George Floyd situation. 

Bengal used to be a liberal, progressive state, Kolkata has been voted the safest city for women for three years running, it is beyond shocking how we have come to a situation where a woman is raped and murdered in her own workplace and then there are attempts at a cover up. 

It is a living nightmare. It is also an inspiration - the way the junior doctors' front has handled their demands for justice in peaceful and dignified protests. A moment of hope too - an opportunity. To reassess our justice systems, to reassess our own selves and attitudes towards women. I for one am awash with questions. Why do Indians condone everyday misogyny in words and deeds and erupt into worldwide protests only at rape and extreme violence? Why do we turn a blind eye to the rapes/murder of women from the marginalised sections of society and take to the streets demanding justice only for middle class/upper class/educated/urban women? Why is there only episodic outrage and condemnation? 

Thank you for reading.