The Afterlife of Things

 

Blooms on the Milkwood tree outside my mother's window.

I

One last time she scrubs the steps and shines the brass,

cleans out the cracks, picks off the weeds and grass,

tries critical eyes, but that’s clearly a fail.

Tomorrow’s the first viewings for the sale.

And there’s no turning back if the deal goes through.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here, but happy elsewhere too.

 

It was a home but mostly at a remove

between parallel worlds and therefore aloof.

The occupants are gone. She’s kept it trim.

But memory has a price. And that’s often grim.

Both buyer and seller must pay what is due.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here, but happy elsewhere too.

 

II

It’s melancholy to part with happy places

traced out in years and years of beloved faces.

She’s run in the garden, played in the courtyard - 

the threads are frayed but to untangle is hard.

She must choose between homes, she can’t afford two.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here, but happy elsewhere too.

 

A house is a refuge. A house is a knife

that slices and serves different phases of life.

From this one to the next, never for too long, -

they might belong to her, she can’t ever belong.

Each one’s a transition she’s just passing through.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here, but happy elsewhere too.

 

III

One after another, she combs through each room –

there’s a flower vase, half a bottle perfume

photos of her folks and folks she doesn’t know.

An old crocheted blanket. They all have to go.

All traces erased. All made fresh and new.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here, but happy elsewhere too.

 

Certificates and bills, the poignant debris

a life leaves behind. Thumbprints of memory.

Where does it start or end? And what is its heft?

Profoundly cherished once but now nothing’s left.

Holding onto the past is also taboo.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here but happy elsewhere too.

 

IV

A man’s wrist watch, a woman’s vermillion pot,

a metal clump of coins that someone forgot,

a child’s drawing preserved as a souvenir.

Layer upon layer. Year upon year.

The papers are yellowed, the ink’s faded blue.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here, but happy elsewhere too.

 

Too many stories tucked into everything

And each tale has a twist and some have a sting.

Each thing from a house to a pen and a pipe

has its own life cycle and then an afterlife.

Clay goes back to clay, whether cup or statue.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here, but happy elsewhere too.

 

V

One last time she dusts the chairs, draws a deep breath

and thinks how strange is the change brought on by death.

Not just a man’s life that ends, gets extinguished,

but all his belongings too get on a list.

They too go dead, their purpose up for review.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here, but happy elsewhere too.

 

Tomorrow the buyer comes, if they see fit,

her childhood home goes – every brick of it.

Her mother’s garden, father’s chair, her old swing

irrevocably change, each and everything.

No longer hers to visit, dust or shampoo.

She doesn’t quite know what exactly to do.

She was happy here, but happy elsewhere too.

October's been super hectic so far and of course that's going to continue into November.  The festive season started on the 10th and the first phase will end with Diwali on 8th Nov. We've just finished with the Durga Puja, Bengal's largest festival - a UNESCO awardee on intangible cultural heritage. The idols are fashioned with a bamboo framework and clay, in a centuries-old ritual, worshipped for four days and then immersed in rivers or local water bodies. Clay going back to clay and an example par excellence of sustainability.

This above poem combines my entire month. It is also a direct result of the posts of two of my close friends, a schoolmate and a Cairomate.  So thank you, you guys know who you are. 

The schoolmate is now settled in Canada, and among other things, she's a ceramic artist producing gorgeous wall art, cups, mugs, jugs and sundry other articles. She wrote about a salt cellar on which she had left an inadvertent thumb impression that made its own pattern and a useful groove for the scoop to rest on. She ended with the thought that everything has its own story and what we think of as flaws often turn out useful in some or other, completely unforeseen way. 

My Cairomate is now in Dhaka, she is a lawyer and a passionate environmental activist, working on sustainability, waste management and a circular economy. She recently conducted a workshop titled The Afterlife of Things. I said to her that would make a great title for a compilation of case studies in waste management, and she quipped that it would a great title for fiction too. "Perhaps your next one?" was how she put it. So that was how the prompt happened. 

Meanwhile, all October I've been meeting prospective buyers for my parental flat and reflecting on the afterlife of properties. My grandfather's house was sold in 2013. I had lived there only a couple years but come back to spend all summer holidays and home leaves in my childhood. It was the one steady shelter I knew throughout my life up until its sale and the permanent address on my passport till I moved to my marital home. Built in the 1930s, it had been the family home for 80+ years. 

My parents moved out from Kolkata in the 60s and bought their own flat when they resettled back in the 80s. They had lived in that flat for over 40 years till their death. I've been yanked/moved and been moving houses/flats/cities since I was an infant. It doesn't need saying that preparing to bid goodbye to a decades long family home is an entirely different ball game compared to moving houses and or even continents. C'est la vie. Always a mixed bag, always with a lesson to learn and a chance to grow. And forever uber fascinating. All in all - a great chance for poetry!

This poem's actually much longer, planned as 14X14, presented truncated here because that length is definitely a no-go for blogs. I'm not sure this length is okay either, but I couldn't chop any further. I'd particularly value your views on the repetition of the last two lines in each stanza as a refrain. Did you like it? loathe it? neutral?

Shubho Bijoya Dashami to all those who are celebrating. And happy autumn/spring to all those who are not. Wishing you good health, sustainable wealth, peace, happiness and freedom this festive season and always.