Poetry: Mona Dash

Mona Dash

The Skin of Tradition

1

The foreigner watches a wedding in fascination

large bindi squatting on her forehead

red saree colouring white limbs.

The elders enthuse how she

sits relaxed on the dusty ground

reveres the sacredness of every chant

embraces chaos in wondrous happiness.

The Americans, Germans, English,

French, Italians flock here, hearts one

with conch shells; cross-legged,

slurp white rice and dal from banana leaves.

Yet I, I ask for my fork and spoon.

Yet I, born in a small town, tempered by heat,

coloured with tradition, married saree-clad

 in front of the fire, complain of the fumes

my eyes burning. I, brought up within these walls

makes it a point to question too much

why should I, why must I, bow in respect,

 hide in shame, follow rules and customs,

 forget myself. I question for years.

Later, in London, that city I call home,

forgetting, at home tulsi plants sit in courtyards

white chita is drawn on Thursday

 to welcome Lakshmi.

‘A city without temples scratching its skyline

cannot be home ever,’ they pronounce.

I question for years.

2

The answer, thought but not mouthed:

You can appreciate culture,

fold your legs in suppliance

bend your head, fast all day in a temple

knowing tomorrow you will be home.

Today is a thrill, like climbing Machu Picchu

like rowing down the Okavango delta.

When the blood that runs in you today

bled on a pyre, hundreds of years ago

soaking chrysanthemum garlands

when a village is somewhere, had you lived

fifty years before, you would be

behind a veil waiting, watching,

when not that many years back, a marriage

marked you with blood red sindoor in black hair

closeted rooms, opened legs

breeding healthy sons and if not white widows.

When you know all this, then, the legs don’t fold here

in the dust, in the sacredness

even though they do at Yoga in the gym.

The heart that belongs, never accepting, runs,

runs the farthest,

to shed centuries of old skin.

Metamorphosis

Narcissus sits transfixed

head bowed, limbs folded

watching a water spirit, he thinks.

Watching and loving and calling

a form like no other.

Nymph or spirit who loved before,

they wait for him, invite him back.

Forms naked in desire, in bodies.

Echo weeps and calls out.

They ask him to return from the lake

yet transfixed he sits

and pines and loves what cannot love him back.

He waits, and he sinks

into himself, gaunt and lonely

into the lake reflecting

mountains, the world, his love.

Until the skies break into colour.

Until the earth weeps red.

Until his head implodes.

Cracks appear,

his body moulds into stone.

The rock he sits on

forms a giant hand

holding a cracked egg.

A narcissus blooms

hesitantly white,

deepening yellow,

forever brightening spring.

(Based on the painting ‘The Metamorphosis of Narcissus’ by Salvador Dali)

Nympheas

The lilies brood

darkening thoughts of what is past,

of what may never come,

dread rising silently

in stagnant roots.

The lilies weave

pink, purple, blue, flickers of

dreams, of wishes, of holding

bits of the sky in their bodies.

The lilies wilt

drooping lives, death the sentinel

standing close.

The lilies bloom

magic on paper, colours in the water,

impressions forming, growing, breaking

the canvas ablaze with a day, a season

and just for a moment

the lilies hold

eternity in their bodies.

(Based on the waterlilies series by Claude Monet)

Aquarelle flash

A pot of paint spills
inking the pale blue
a rich pink, a muted orange.

Golden strands backlight

the palette

as rainbow colours

come together

in a sensuous embrace.

                                                                               

A quadrille of colours

lifts the sky

mint freshness

infusing the cool air.

Dawn breaks.

Inside, they continue to sleep

Oblivious,

the smell of yesterday

clinging to damp eyelids,

beer filled snores

reverberating inside walls.

As Infinity smiles outside

for just a second.

Jealousy

She of the tiara, of stars in her hair,

of moonlight, silken gowns,

of the sun transforming her house into shining heavens,

she of the beauty, which lustrously invaded her husband’s mind

and other parts restlessly every night; she the owner of

artefacts, jewellery, from shops, online

brought in by ships from exotic countries

with unpronounceable names.

She of the beauty and riches,

saw others with dimples laughing in their cheeks

brighter stars than hers in their eyes, slimmer waists, softer breasts,

songs in their steps, taller houses and wider gardens,

and she made sure they were not around her anymore.

She saw her child laugh louder in the company of others

 even more than in hers, so she snatched the smile away

 to hide in a little red box studded with shiny mirrors.

She prodded and carved out the eyes of one, the heart of another,

the friendship of the generous, she marvelled at her claws

growing faster and sharper by the day

to gouge out what should have been hers.

She hid them in coloured boxes and kept them in drawers

safely, to look upon as hers every day.

Much later, she saw her skin had turned salak like,

snakes mated in her hair.

When she laughed, blood dribbled from the sides.

The boxes when opened were empty

dried kernels of nothingness –

and she wondered why.

Salak: snake fruit; fruit found mostly in Indonesia with scaly skin.

Setu, September 2018