Weight of memories and 4 other poems

Peeling an orange should not take that long –

Just use the edges of recently trimmed nails, soft

from acts of water to feel around the closed contours

of a bumpy saffron sun; scented, smooth and oily

till a secret crack in the wall

                        perfumes your fingers…

then, it’s a tender act of origami in reverse –

peeling away shapeless parchments – lemonade

mixers & tiny threads of orange veins hiding under nails;

memory of a tangerine afternoon lingering – you…

eating orange prawn-wedges;

            pips, peppering a plate…

Sometimes I forget and sniff my finger-tips –

it all comes back – position of the clock’s 2nd hand,

song that was playing in the background, the acre of sky

grazed by a lethargic sun – the sudden phone call…

sirens, beeping machines, voices –

            suffix… to a numb afternoon.

Peeling oranges never take long now –

It has almost become an act of un-remembrance…

the origami is still the same… just in reverse – you walk

into the kitchen once again as I ensconce tangerine

wedges within a moon & wrap

an orange skin around it!

I remembered my grandfather, that morning 

a stranger bearing a memory of my father lay

in the living-room – a strange oxymoron –

            considering all the jasmines and over-

perfumed white roses masking the smell

            of a husk barely holding spent flesh

                        and bones eager to meet grass.

Grandfather died on a cold winter’s dusk –

A Friday – feast of Mother Mary – He was

a bony brown farmer who could tell time

            by the shadow his house threw at his

feet – & a ready smile; light on his feet, he

            ran through the hills like Perseus –

swift; with me on his shoulder

Yet when my brothers and I, lifted the

light, utilitarian coffin we hand bought,

the whole weight nearly threw us down.

            We weren’t sure how we’d carry him

to the church he was baptized in, nearly

            A mile and half up a meandering &

                        Sloping road that afternoon.

as if all of grandfather’s organs – brain, lungs,

heart, stomach, kidneys, liver and other coily

innards, that stayed up to keep him moving

            when he was alive, suddenly decided

to give up in his wake – take a well-deserved

            break and without any care sink like

                        stone – morbid, dead weight!

When it was time to take the body once called

father, I ordered a hearse; this time – I had the

memory of grandfather’s weight; my father was

            heavier, still – love, laughter, anger & all, 

with the weight of the coffin & his dead organs,

I walked the solemn road… my internal

organs – a little withered…

On the Seventh day we rested;

            We set our alarm clocks to day one!

            We had created! We were done!

One question remained –

            What now?

On the sixth day, we made memories

            Reflections for future, beasts

            & other flesh-flowers of our zoo

One question remained –

            Was it yet time for repose?

On the fifth day, we made dreams

            Prophecies from the past, avian

            ambitions and thirst and it’s allegories.

One question remained –

            Who would swim in it?

On the fourth day, we created desire

            Carnal and carnival – flesh and soul;

            Spiritual and spectacle – plays and poetry.

One question remained –

            Where would love and lust reside?

On the third day, we created clay, mud and flesh

            Water to swim; fern to clothe and colour

            And flesh to live out time and other emotions.

One question remained –

            How would we name and colour emotions?

On the second day, we build a house

            From the roof-top, we picked clouds

            and wrung water for our lawns

One question remained –

            How would we decorate it…?

On the first day, we woke up –

            We had rested, we had a world ahead

            We became restless – we were ready!

One question remained –

            Anyone for lawn-tennis?

It’s almost a catholic experience, now – giving in…

to the echo of Rabboni; Resist not Evil

Giving in to the baptismal experience of inaction –

Standing still in a crowded train – it is enough

to let myself be cloaked in the semi-sweaty mass

with a singular thought – Exeunt!

My feet, now, moves in tandem with the pulse

of 100 other feet in this Bolshoi – each step

synchronized from years of muscle memory.

This ballet is tattooed on our sole.

It isn’t eazy – but after years of rigorous practice,

it has become something akin to second nature –

Disembarking at Dadar station is easier now;

Forgetting you is a habit – almost…

a reflex action to remembrance. The key is giving in…

to the vacuous company of your absence!

Take a deep ink-blue sky & a time-traveling paper-boat that’s lost its way;

Fold the Sun, forgotten; troglodytes and beachcombers on left-wise

half-sunken bottles, blue crabs & us – nearby a stray clementine lay…

A lost paper-boat may jettison one evening with whiskey-scented lies.

Fold the Sun; forgotten troglodytes and beachcombers on left-wise

A sea on vacation, back-floats, waiting – an unpenned plan yonder lay

a lost paper-boat – will jettison one evening with whiskey-scented lies;

Hurry – cut a few paper-shaving birds & stars to lead a lighthouse astray.

A sea on vacation, back-floats, waiting an unpenned plan – yonder lay

a paper dream – ingredients for an origami evening, a blueprint collates

Hurry – cut a few paper-shaving birds & stars to lead a lighthouse astray.

Fold it into a paper boat & launch – perchance an idle sea awaits

a paper dream & ingredients for an origami evening, a blueprint collates

half-sunken bottles, blue crabs, us – nearby a stray clementine lay…

Fold it into a paper boat & launch – perchance an idle sea awaits

a deep ink-blue sky & a time-traveling paper-boat that lost its way