Poetry: Jagari Mukherjee

ROOTS

Love in childhood was served

on a plantain leaf--rice

with a side of salt and lemon.

Then came the yellow lentils

and a fish and a bowl of curd.

I always added salt to the curd,

pretending that it was the paste

of magic roots consumed by

barren queens of folklore.

In summers, there was mango pickle

with plenty of sour oil.

After school, I ate on the terrace,

sharing cooked rice grains with pigeons. 

Now, after many sojourns over

lands and seas, I drink fine wine.

But few people know my secret--

I still add salt to my curd, 

hoping it to be a miracle root-paste

for a barren queen of yore.

ENTALLY*

In the rain, I search for your home.

The sun cools a bit and I take out

my orange-teal umbrella.

Water soon logs my yellow ballerinas

before I find the narrow lane

right of the roadside temple.

I had forgotten the way, but

I remember your friend's instructions 

to walk straight into

the old house with the antique 

jutting balcony and the frail railings:

the same house where I once gave 

your favorite cat a name.

Each step makes me wonder

if my insides are hollowed out

because my heart beats to the

rhythm of rain.

I imagine caressing the cat

and walking up the haunted staircase

to the room perfumed by

your books and cigarettes.

I reach the vast open door.

I imagine the earth surrendering 

to the ministrations of the sky--

brazenly--letting in the downpour.

Note: *An old area of Calcutta

SHELTER (TRIVANDRUM 2006) 

1

You think you are too old

to collect seashells.

You remember beaches bleached blond

like a movie star's tresses.

And also shores where you walk

on cinnamon sand and seek out coconut palms

for shelter.

You erase memories of a turbulent year where

pain was the theme, and buy a necklace

of green jade beads and a floral orange sarong.

Your mouth waters at the store-displayed fish

and you process the perfume of waves.

You seek peace in the sea breeze

and happiness in trinkets.

2

You feel almost normal when the steamer

zooms through backwaters and you find more

coconut palms--each frond promises shelter.

In God's own country, you try to forget

that you've walked through hell:

will peace cure all traces of your

post-traumatic stress disorder?

Perhaps you are never too old

to collect seashells.

***

Jagari is the recipient of Reuel International Prize For Poetry 2019, Jagari Mukherjee has authored three volumes of poetry. Her latest collection, The Elegant Nobody, was published by HawakalPublishers, Kolkata in January 2020.

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Local 2020 :: Setu, June 2020