Break open the seed
and what do you see?
nothing Baba.
but some how this tree became a fig tree.
Why?
My father, green like a neem tree
cupped soil in his palm
and dropped seed like rain
running as roots grasp soil.
II.
India is the land of waiting
my tata told me so.
Ask the fisherman
who peers into graying Krishna river
singing to the deep
jaaldhi meri jaan
for I too have mothers
to feed
cigarette balanced like hourglass.
Tataya cupped his son’s face
in his palm.
and you?
laughter surfacing through yellowing eyes.
He mocks us so
for my baba’s hands learned to wander
around leaf, rock, pen, dollar
fingers stroking ticket
palm waving out window
good bye! shukriah!
Tata waved back
leaning head against stone pillar
watching fisherman reeling in
silver mackerel.
III.
Our youth is spent on a road
of hot coals
sprinting past roadside cricket
and jackfruit kiosks, future branded into the lines
of your palm.
IV.
My father once snuck into the cinema
and watched a twenty foot Raj Kapoor singing
Mera Juta Hai Jaapaani,
Ye Patalun Ingalistaani
Sar Pe Laal Topi Rusi,
Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustaani
while pressing hand to heart
but trust me:
he wanted those Japanese shoes to bad
to run run run
no waiting now.
V.
My father
ran on 10,000 mile roads of hot coals,
books pressed on cement floors
wax that couldn’t be scraped off floor
I imagine ten year old boy
reading grammar texts like I read faces
papa beat the odds
like every one of your papas
and landed on frigid land
that caused shoulders to tighten
tighten ‘till the body freezes
and coals turn cold
a generation of travels
left to the closing of eyes.
My father learned patience
and holds it in his palm
like custard apple
a fruit too sweet for me to eat.
My feet want to do the listening
to words buried under soil
I want to run
past the pantomime of rock meeting sky
in Chiapas
or bodies bending in Kosovo
I’ll trade sweet bread
for chididhar
and plait hair
India, love me love me love me
hope falls heavy from lips
They can see right through you
my sister insists
well I hope they like what they see:
dark shouldered westerner
writing history with fingers
tracing O-C-E-A-N
in hot dust
capturing Andra sun
while clenching fist.
My pocket called dil
can never be full. I dream
of running to India
to relive a childhood
that was a drop of honey on the tongue
of my father
but sweetness never left mouth
and then maybe I am one of them:
vagabonds
metal laughter like temple bells
swinging on the train
watching stars pass by
time frozen on momentum.
Trust me
I can sip palm wine like a native
play gilidanda
‘till sky turns indigo
and God, can I pray
eyes shut so tight
face scars into custard apple.
India, love me love me love me
mantras seething between lips
until I am parched and out of breath
just like my father and the rickshaw driver
who bravely grins and asks me
which country madam
and I whisper
India every time
But I watch papa walk foreword
and I running back
to the village of Nangali
village of rice pooja and monsoon rain
my hand misses him
outstretched
he smiles.
It is your time
to travel behind hooded eyes
but time will be your enemy
bring knife to snake
and split it into moments
so that you tuck them into the pocket
you so affectionately call heart
and begin to listen to footsteps fading in earth.
VI.
I walk
neck held high
fathers voice mirrors in my own
Mera Juta Hai Jaapaani,
Ye Patalun Ingalistaani
Sar Pe Laal Topi Rusi,
Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustaani
and this is the India I know
and one day,
I’ll have in those Japanese shoes
I will bend and pick up the last seed
to fill my pocket.
No comments:
Post a Comment