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.

Notes From a Plane.

I have seen it coming,
This day - the day I would miss my flight.
More and more frequently
I put off leaving for the airport
To the last possible minute.
My last three trips
Saw me in a mad rush
With taxi drivers coaxing
Their vehicles to run like race cars
On the obstacle courses of Aizawl roads.
Packing is a challenge I loathe;
Once upon a time, good boyfriends
Undertook that task for me.
Now I pack for myself,
Usually half an hour before I leave,
Haphazardly throwing in clothes
And hoping for the best.
Most times I forget something vital;
The last time I left a city,
I left my heart behind.
Airport food and airplane food
Are abhorrent, overpriced,
But I eat them anyway,
Because I rush out without having had time for a proper meal. My reluctance to plan my schedule properly is perhaps symptomatic of some inner repulsion at the thought of leaving another place yet another time. I love travelling to different places, meeting different people, soaking in different cultures. It is the journeys I hate.The International Terminal at Kolkata had mosquitoes: I was devoured by these bloodsucking insects as I waited. Oh, and I was on an international flight despite my not going anywhere abroad, because apparently, GoAir is an international flight.

Besides, I know by now what awaits me. The unimaginative decor of airport lounges, people staring at you for want of anything better to do, particularly lecherous guys who have no compunctions staring at you even when they're sitting right beside you, total strangers wanting to know where you're from, where you're going, and what you're doing there. Even as I write this, I caught the dude sitting behind me desperately peering through the crack between the seats, trying to read what I am writing. I stared him down. Small victory.

And this lady, sitting in the aisle seat- with, thankfully, an empty seat between us- this abominable woman has been belching every few minutes in the loudest, most disgusting way imaginable. Poetry is no longer possible. Believe me, a loud, deep, long belch will kill poetic inclinations any time. And her prodigious bulk prevents me from even attempting to get out of my seat to get at my stuff in the overhead compartment.

The Captain has at last announced that we are beginning our descent into Delhi. Yayyy!The overly conscientious flight attendant has suggested to us, over the PA system, that we should save whatever we have been working on before switching off our laptops. Seriously?!

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.

Teachers' Day

I refuse to be cynical about Teachers' Day. So here is me wishing a happy Teachers' Day to -

Miss Mabel, my class teacher when I was in classes 2 and 3, who wore tailored pencil skirts that reached to just below her knees and always put her hair up in a loose bun that never came undone. Boy, was she pretty. She was sweet, dedicated, and never got angry, but always managed to have perfect discipline inside her classroom. That woman had class. Most importantly for me, she gave me certificates for things like "cleanliness" and good marks; when I topped the class at the final class 3 exams, she presented to me a hardbound copy of Dickens' A Christmas Carol, out of her own pocket. She hooked me on Victorian fiction for life. What an amazing lady - I hope she's been blessed, wherever she is.

Miss Helen, the statuesque Hindi teacher who spoke her own unique brand of Mizo.When none of us displayed the slightest interest in learning Hindi, she was able to motivate us. If none of us were very fluent in Hindi, it was our fault, not hers. If nothing else, we all wrote flawless Devanagari script, beautiful, precise, and neat. Not that we understood half of what we wrote.

Sr. Christita at Mary Mount school, who made me go back to school after I had decided to 'drop out' in class 7 because of the school bully. I refused to attend school for an entire month, but she made numerous trips to my home, talking to me, my parents, cajoling, hugging, and finally persuading me to return with the assurance that the bully would be dealt with. Last I heard, he was in prison for some juvenile crime, but that's another story.

The Revd. Presley Lyngdoh. Princi, as he was fondly called. What a character. Always formal, always polite, always scary. A stickler for decorum. Sir Wasan Elwin, son of celebrated anthropologist Verrier Elwin, whose razor-sharp mind always delighted, terrified, and instructed.

Miss Tuni Gill at St. Mary's College, who made us stage Pygmallion, or more precisely, My Fair Lady. I managed to hide in the wings (literally) but her enthusiasm was contagious. Miss Dincola, who played the piano and spoke English with an impeccable British intonation.

Prof. Esther Syiem, who always treats students with courtesy and respect. She shows that being a teacher isn't all about scaring people and imposing rules. Always refined, always down-to-earth. She is also a little absentminded. She once told somebody that she had two children, two lovely girls, when the third child tugged at her hand and whispered, "but Mei (mother), you have THREE! You forgot me." She hopes her poor son will not be traumatized for life by that event.

Also, I would acknowledge all those who taught outside the classroom, too numerous to mention. The good and the bad. Life gives you these little lessons through people that cross your path. The ones that love, the ones that leave, the ones that provide strength and support, the ones that make you stronger by their absence. I have laughed, cried, yelled, ranted, waxed eloquent, pondered, raged... and through it all I have learnt. And I still learn. Thank you, teachers; thank you, Life.