Thlasik Mumang

What is it they say about winter dreams?

Tacky beads on my neck turn cool

Mingled with the chill of night.

You gave nervous, disapproving glares

When ghosts of Christmases past

Knocked on the thick wooden door-

Wreathed.

Your memories have become mine.

And so, I felt the fascination

The excitement, the fear,

The disgust.

I felt in me

Your exquisite helplessness,

So addictive.

I saw you from a distance,

Torn. A fragment of a moment

In painful slow motion

Enacted on your face,

Stretched to infinity.

But I was mute,

Equally helpless.

I saw you rooted

Unable to move

And then you retreated

Into yourself.

Unreachable.

I shall put away the wreath soon

And pack it in a box labeled

‘Ghosts’.

-->

PLEDGE

India is my country.

A piece of paper

And the whims of the powerful

Made it so.

Some protested,

Others did not,

Most did not have a choice.

All Indians are my brothers and sisters,

I find siblings can be very different.

I love my country, and I am proud of its rich and varied heritage.

My country is not always proud of me

And does not always remember my heritage.

I tell myself it loves me back.

I shall always strive to be worthy of it,

Although worth is measured

In terms I do not understand.

I shall give my parents, teachers and all elders respect

And treat everyone with courtesy;

Even the man who feels entitled to rape me

Or abuse my man

Because we look different.

Yes, I will answer with courtesy

Every time someone asks

If I am from China.

To my country and my people, I pledge my devotion –

For what it’s worth.

Devotion. Devotee. Devoted.

Words to chew on.

In their wellbeing and prosperity alone lies my happiness,

And in my wellbeing and prosperity alone

Lies the future of the nation.

When You Spoke

When last you spoke
You spoke of times long gone,
You spoke of Bangkok,
Strange accents,
Stranger diets.
You disarmed with laughter -
That sound was alien too long.
Did you know somehow,
None more would be forthcoming,
The way you laughed that day?

Memories are tricky;
On good days they bring remembrance
Of golden lockets from Kuala Lumpur
Shaped into a heart
Now long lost;
The sound of mortar and pestle
When you ground
Spices, herbs, hearts;
On good days you remember
A new car with meaning in its numbers,
And prayers floating in church
Long after it was deserted.

On bad days-
But one should not dwell on bad days,
What is the point?
Suffice it to say
On bad days
You remember Pink Floyd
And Time.

And Death-
Somewhere an unwilling pseudo widow
Is drowned in the good and bad,
As she struggles to explain
Absence
To sweet fruit
Born of blighted seeds.

One More Tale

Romeo in relentless pursuit
Will not consider denial.

The tides beat mercilessly
Upon the shore;
The rocks become weary.

I contemplate upon the power of water
But sirens intrude.

This thing that silences me
What is it?
Words were once my escape
Now they mock, tantalize, elude.

The blue of my summer sky
Must be indigo where you are.

The other day you asked
Why I do not write anymore.
Maybe I am happy -
Misery was always my muse.
But I sink into misery
When I cannot have my verses.
Perhaps the desire to stop desiring
Is not as strong as the desire to desire
An unnamable happiness.
And so there it is –
My objet petit a.
Much like you also are.

But Romeo, coming back to Romeo,
Who has chosen a flawed Juliet.
And Juliet who tries, and fails
To save them both.
She cannot rewrite the end
Of stories long prophesied.
Romeo rejects salvation
And pursues the elusive impossible.

I tire of these time-worn tales.

And so the tides beat on
Persuasive and unyielding.

Lament of the Scorned

I am your Jezebel,
The curse you spit out
Along with the blood red
Juice of betel that
Oozes from corners
Of lips that formerly
Caressed, cajoled, captivated
With truths uttered unawares
By the same lips
Now denied.
I am Delilah,
Your downfall.
I am your drug,
Your shame,
Your reluctant high.
I am the discarded,
The one you stone
With relief
And
Some guilt.

A Poem

This one is for two poet-friends, who read this and thought I should put it in my blog for easy access. So here goes:

And now, it is time
To write you a poem;
The one that you wanted,
The one that scared me,
The one that mourns
The passing of you,
You, who have been my poetry.


When they analyzed it nursing endless cups of tea in an authentic little Khasi jadoh stall, while simultaneously murdering many pieces of kwai in the recesses of their mouths, it sounded a lot more philosophical and 'deeper' than it probably does to you, dear reader. Among the phrases flung about were, "the paradox of the situation", "the chicken and the egg question", "circularity", etc. They should probably come here and explain.

Letter to Lyova

Lyova, wherever you are,
I want you to know
I have finally mustered up
My faltering courage to use
This handmade, woven notebook
That you pressed into my hands,
Urging me to fill it with words.

The little doll that tsunami-victims made
Still stays pinned on the cover,
Although the pin is now rusted.
"Tsunamika" is her name.
I wonder how long her creator
Struggled to concieve of such a
Witty play on words.

I wonder if she had writer's block.
Did she, like I, suddenly feel her words unworthy?
Did panic grip her every time her fingers held a pen?
Did every painful, labored word
Feel like it drew blood?

Lion-philosopher, did you know
The enormity of the burden
You left in my hands
When you left this notebook behind?

It is strange that after all is over,
When images of sitting on floors of dusty coaches,
Curd-rice, balmy monsoon evenings,
Jewish temples, Adorno and Heidegger,
Nuns severe in habits of gray
Have started to blur like pictures
Of trees taken from speeding trains,

This notebook remains,
Eloquently silent,
At times accusatory,
At others comforting.
Finally I have taken it up
Because I owe it to the gift,
And I owe it to myself,
And I wanted you to know that, Lyova.

PINE TREES AND YOU

Pine trees and you

Make me long to fly

Across the silver twilight

Into the abyss of the sky.

Pine trees, solitude

And you, are entwined

In the cool stillness of night,

Embalming my mind.

Moonbeams caress my face

Now aglint with silver streams

And trees silently scream,

Cut down, along with fatal dreams.

Unnamed.

Earth to earth, dust to dust.
My mother’s tears bathed my lifeless face.
I could hear women moaning,
Their agony sung out in dirges
In the land of the living.
Darkness sealed in my loneliness.
This crypt is cold, too cold.
I feel old.

The night they ripped me out
From the dank, damp earth,
I could not cry, though I did try.
A soundless scream wrenched my soul apart.
Kapa, kapa*, why have you forsaken me?
You were wrong – it hurts even after death.
Kanu, Anu*, I long for your warmth.
I feel old, too old.
I am cold.

Notes*:
‘Kapa’ means ‘my father’
‘Kanu’ and ‘Anu’ both are terms for ‘my mother’.

WOMAN.

Woman,
You are a fascinating person.
Sorrounded by legends
And myths, ancient and modern.
Your jet-black, ramrod- straight hair
Cascades like waterfalls deep in the jungle,
Where once, tribal lords
Must have paid homage to your beauty
With songs that enchant us still,
The quiet forest reverberating
With drumbeats, as you swayed to the rhythm.


Now you carry the song in your heart
As you lose yourself among the crowd
In the busy city, a far cry from tribal ways.
You speak their language, live their life,
Desperate to fit in, a question of survival.
You do not know your walk gives you away,
For you still walk to the beat of drums
From an ancient, forgotten time,
When you were noble, yet never a savage.
You ignore such reminders, hectically trying
To forge a Self acceptable to them.


Your image in the mirror
Only reminds you your eyes are different.
In vain you wish for a different face:
Larger eyes, sharper features. You look like yourself
And that contributes to your victimization.
They do not understand your ways,
The easy camaderie, the uninhibited joy,
The assumption that people are as good as you.
They do not understand your pain
Or the lengths you go to hide it,
When you sing your sorrow-songs.


Your inability to blend in marks you out
As an object around which myths are spun.
You mesmerize, fascinate, attract and enchant,
You arouse curiosity, suspicion, fantasy, jealousy
And fear
Which must be conquered
By conquering you.
So they fabricate these myths
In an effort to slot you
Into a recognizable category.
Sister, don’t help perpetuate these myths.

Far-Away Friend

Far-away friend,
I look at your picture
And am transported back
To the time of misty afternoons,
Serene waters lapping gently
Around our little ramshackle boat.

I remember how your eyes twinkled
With the joy of rowing on your own.
Emotions chased each other
Across the charismatic face,
And not least of them
Was the vague surprise you felt
As if it was wrong to derive pleasure
From so simple a thing.

Far-away friend
I look at you smiling
A smile so perfect, and frozen in time;
A fragment of eternity
Stolen from infinity,
And ours alone to cherish.
I am reassured because I know,
Whatever else I stand to lose,
None can ever hope to snatch away
Those precious moments in time.

I remember a wet and muddy afternoon,
And the warmth of a voice that caressed.
Outside, the sky wept buckets
For the lot of man, who must face loss.
Victims of such a plight, you and I,
Yet forgot all for a day.
Safe from the world outside
Inside the cocoon of a cottage,
Enthralled by the magic of your voice,
In the strains of your music
Differences and defenses fell away.
Far-away friend,
I look at your eyes and wonder,
Do I see, mirrored in them,
My own perplexity and bewilderment,
My disappointments and insecurities,
The sense of loss I feel,
For something I never had?
Does that voice ever cry out in anguish
At a destiny that seems unfair
In tempting you with a taste
Of something that is destined never to be yours?
Do you ever think thoughts
That never lived to see the light of day,
And committed suicide before they passed your lips?
Have you ever lived to regret
The passing of a moment,
Of an opportunity thrown away,
Scattered to the winds?

I remember a Sunday afternoon
Of sweet fellowship and easy talk,
Punctuated by fizzy drinks and good food.
A time when your faith gave back life
To these frustrated and helpless fingers.
I travel back in time
To a lake mellowed and serene.
I remember saying :
Memories are like the mist –
All around you, enveloping you;
And when you try to hold them,
They slip through your fingers,
Satisfied to linger
In the periphery of your consciousness
Like an old tune you carry ; an intangible presence
Hidden deep in the recesses of the heart.

Far-away friend,
I look at your picture,
And remember so much more,
And the taste of you is bittersweet;
For my heart will not find it easy
To accept what my head decrees:
That it is better to have a fragment
To look back and dwell upon
Than to have nothing at all;
Not to press questions that have no answers,
Not to sing songs that have no tune,
Nor to have faith in something that is not.

I remember, thinking wearily:
We are worlds apart – you and I.
And I despaired, for my vision
Extended only to the superficialities.
I remember waving off a taxicab,
Forlorn, alone as never before,
Left alone with the ironies of my life,
Feeling like the last person in an evacuated world,
Wishing I could create a world for us
Where we would merge in defiant harmony.

Far-away friend,
I gaze at your picture,
And I am glad
For this frozen moment in time;
I am glad that the rainbow has many hues,
That the day has light and darkness,
For the piano’s ebony and ivory,
For the pied beauty of the sky,
For the variegated colors of the earth,
And the multicolored beauty of your shawl;
Each flows into the other gracefully,
Merging, entwined, complementing and uniting
Each providing a foil
To highlight the other’s beauty
Providing a finer tapestry
Of richer, many-hued, interesting detail,
Surely a mirror-work reflecting
The greater plan of the Creator’s artistry,
Where you and I are not castigated
For a mere difference in name,
But provide unique pieces that contribute
To the beautiful final picture
Of the divine masterpiece.

Unnamed.

Earth to earth, dust to dust.
My mother’s tears bathed my lifeless face.
I could hear women moaning,
Their agony sung out in dirges
In the land of the living.
Darkness sealed in my loneliness.
This crypt is cold, too cold.
I feel old.

The night they ripped me out
From the dank, damp earth,
I could not cry, though I did try.
A soundless scream wrenched my soul apart.
Kapa, kapa*, why have you forsaken me?
You were wrong – it hurts even after death.
Kanu, Anu*, I long for your warmth.
I feel old, too old.
I am cold.

Notes*:
• ‘Kapa’ means ‘my father’
• ‘Kanu’ and ‘Anu’ both are terms for ‘my mother’.

NIGHT

Poetry is
This Rock.
Your sacred Space.
Suspended between
Heaven and Earth.
Above, the sky
A black blanket
Patterned with stars;
Below, an inky darkness
And village lights twinkling
In the horizon.
Music is
The low resonance
Of your voice
Blending perfectly
With the quiet night.
Words are beautiful
When they come together
The way they do
On your lips
And a voice
Can drown one’s senses.
Peace is
Knowing I matter
Enough to be shown
This haven.
An unworthy devotee, perhaps,
Yet my breath is taken
Captive, by the sheer majesty
Of the shrine, and You.
Made heady by moonlight,
I spin round and round:
I think I catch a falling star.
Awe is
Lying on this flat bed,
Feasting on the vista
And the magnificence of Night.
I realize this is a piece of Heaven
A rare taste of things unseen.
And then I shatter the peace.
My query is like a pinprick
That disturbs the solitude.
Your eyes become black, blank
Empty pools of disquiet.

[JANTAR MANTAR OBSERVATORY]

Time.
Reminders of time.
Keepers of time.
Time that marches on
Relentlessly,
Heedless of my feverish attempts
To keep pace with its strident march.
Time, you are merciless.
Will you not wait for me,
For love?
Stay. I implore you.
Stretch this moment into eternity.
Another day, another hour,
Another breath, another glance –
The Sun, the Shadows,
The restless day
Become my foes, allies of time.
Time – in vain I try to hold on,
Until at last, letting go,
I await another time,
Another day.

APOLOGY

You ask about my life,
And my soul squirms,
Writhing in private agony,
Cringing at this invasion;
Panic-stricken, I answer you in clichés,
And you ruthlessly hack down my defenses.
You back down, feeling hurt,
Confused, dissatisfied,
While I retreat to a shadowy corner
To lick self-inflicted wounds.

Mortified, remorseful and guilt-ridden,
I fumble with words;
An attempt to articulate
Something I do not understand.
Paradoxes, contrasts, contradictions,
Trip over one another in the making of Me.
I am a confused bundle of opposed thoughts,
Full of conviction, yet unsure at times;
Aggressive, scared; open, anti-social,
A feminine feminist, a conservative non-conformist.

I make you uncomfortable, as with most people.
Despite your valiant efforts to comprehend
The complexities of my existence,
My socialist, secular, liberal friend,
You cannot begin to understand
What it’s like to be me.
Can you accept the harmony of discordant notes?
I can make you comfortable, but I’d rather not.
Having probed into my psyche, insisting on the truth,
Perhaps now it is time for you to squirm,
As I go back to the shadows, whimpering in solitude.

Coming-of-Age.

Self-appointed stripper of your illusions,
I despise myself, not for what I said,
But for forcing you into an ugly world
Devoid of justice and other ideals so noble.
I cannot bear the pain in your eyes,
The shock of recognition
That there is truth in what you hear.
Your world is shaken, you lose balance,
Anger, denial, confusion, disbelief,
Fight for supremacy in your eyes,
And I despise myself, not for what I said,
But for taking away your utopian dreams.

In Dreams.

In dreams, I hold your hand
Without apologizing;
In dreams, the sun’s gentle warmth
Bathes my face as I look up into yours;
In dreams, we spread a blanket
And float away with clouds;
In dreams our carefree laughter
Rings out clear and pure;
In dreams, we sway together, softly,
A prelude to another dance;
In dreams, I exult in being yours
While you open up your heart to me;
In dreams, I love you
As though love were not a sin.

PLEA-II

I. You tell me you know what’s best for me. You dissect my past, discuss my present and predict my future. You confine me within your walls – your narrow institutions without windows. You tell me how to live your life, when to respire and expire. You dictate your code of conduct, tell me what to say, impose your will upon my mind. You even decide what I should think. You expose my mistakes, revel in my failure and feast on my sorrow. I ask you, O self-appointed ruler of my life, tread lightly on my mind.

II. You say friendship is the tie that binds; that nothing can break the cords of our union. But you strangle me with those cords. You need me to hold your hand, be your therapist and cheer you on endlessly. You expect me to pour out my innermost being, to lay bare my deepest feelings on a platter, so that you can serve it to the whole world. You say you admire me, that you respect me; but where is your reverence for my privacy? An open duel is fair enough, but stabbing me from behind is not my idea of friendship. I entreat you, O self-serving friend of mine, tread lightly on my emotions.

III. ‘Blood runs thicker than water’ you say. Yours must be diluted because it runs shallow and false. So, you fed me, nurtured me from a shrieking, wailing infant to this confused, insecure, torn and disillusioned Self that I am today. You say my loyalty lies with you, and I ask what you have done to deserve it. You want to own me, chain me with your expectations, live out your dreams through my life; never liberating, never satiated. I beg of you, O self-satisfied predecessors of mine, tread lightly on my path.

IV. You tell me you love me. You define love the way you see it – on your own terms. You partake of me, you drain me, you abandon me, you leave me bereft, spent and alone. You want me to nourish your ego, to bow down to your dictates, to feed your ever-greedy lust for instant gratification. Well, what if I believe love should give as well as take? And I plead with you, O my self-styled amour, tread lightly on my heart.

V. Finale. You say you care, but you spare me not. You judge and weigh me on your scales and find me wanting; you trample me in the dust, and leave me bruised, broken and battered. You swarm over me, you pick me clean – like vultures over a prey – leaving only the spoils; and when I need you, you desert me, you treat me like an infectious virus. And thus, I ask you, O self-seeking, self-deluding, self-destructive, suffocating but necessary thorn in my flesh, tread lightly on my soul.

Plea

Demystify me.
I would rather be woman
Than shadow or idol.
Flesh and blood
With human failings,
As also human feelings.

Demythologize me,
I would rather be a person
Than a representative of my tribe;
Individualistic and selfish
With personal quirks,
But also personal needs.

Disenchant yourself.
I would rather be an open book
Than an intriguing enigma,
If that entails your refusal
To reach across the chasm
That separates you and I.

Disorient yourself.
Discard the prejudices and assumptions,
Delink the past from the present,
The legacy of customs, tradition and learning,
I would rather be a temporal reality
Than an intangible wisp of memory.