Three City Poems for Mumbai: A Collage in Paint and Poetry
Bearing Witness
From the dark wooden staircases worn down under five generations of footfall
From Teen Batti, Saat rasta, Kaala Chowki, Lalbaug and Shivdi
to the ST bus depots at Bombay Central, Parel and Dadar running
extra services during April, September and October
eager happy families, kids, aji and atya with brass boxes
full of laddoos and rexine bags with zippers that do not work
carrying little gifts of children’s clothes and plastic toys that will
put stars in the eyes of nieces and nephews.
ST buses loaded with bodies aching for rest, for quiet
and for tight embraces of brothers that stayed back
or went back defeated by the city of bright lights.
Kin they must necessarily invite
to every function in the family — -happy or tragic
if they don’t feed them on the thirteenth day of the funeral
who else is there when they themselves pass?
Of all the attachments the city breeds is there one as strong
and compelling as the call of the red soil he left behind
barren, meager, dry and unproductive, yes
yet his very own.
Reclamation
There it is, that sound, the constant hypnotic staccato
iron wheels on iron rails
the track waits for none
then the impatient crowd on the platform holds its breath
for a momentary pause in that rhythm
so they may enter and be one with it.
There it is, the tick tock, like blood in your veins,
the pulse of the clock
a beat that rules your feet
tethered to the treadmill at an unceasing urgent pace
running faster even to remain at the same place
then the smothered impatient thoughts hold their breath
for a momentary blink to get a toehold into your mind
that might compel you to think.
There it is, the roar, that restive thrashing at the shore
the restless wave on the rocks
protesting reclamation
the ominous hum of earthmovers,
silent evictions and demolitions
and giant cement mixers
snaking about everywhere like vipers
then the impatient wave holds its breath
for even a momentary pause, a chink
in the machine’s armour so it may reclaim
the territory that was rightly hers.
Elopement
A cruel sun beat down and roasted to a crisp within an hour
spices and red chilies laid out to dry on the pavement
then, like the child wanting to create fire with a lens and straw
it shone back reflecting from a million walls of glass
and multiplied enough to start a fire in the belly of the rubble
of wood, brick and Mangalore tiles all bulldozed in an organic heap
waiting to rise again like those glass and chrome phoenix temples
demanding obeisance — tall, smooth, silent, intimidating and sleek.
Smooth the realtor’s tongue, intimidating the muscle power
behind his safari suit, silent the automated window pane of his jaguar
tall his promise of alternate shelter, sleek the polarized Ray Bans that cover
his swiftly calculating eyes — -glass and chrome hot enough to start a fire
no place to hide or rest or nest and that was when the swift footed squirrel
eloped far away elsewhere with the soft feathered sparrow never to return.
