Like a child, I am fascinated with the polka-dotted, butterflies emitting
moist aroma of ancient grapes during harvest, and I am slowly colonized by this
life- altering experience; liquid moon beams entering into the skin, lining the
walls of my flesh with the memories of unanimal and unnatural words of longing
and separation. Often in the middle of a conversation, I start quivering with
the pain of soft bark of dead mango trees in the backyard. Am I so
vulnerable? Outside my house, a clay
horse waits for aliens to build pyramids for my ancestors. Will they really
come? If they come, I will feed them
fresh fish- each fish a morsel of my memory, a door to house of my unknown
sins. Gogol’s
relatives tell me my verses
are puerile, my language riddled with potholes. Perhaps, they don’t know I also
paint with dead caterpillar’s blood.
As widows with tobacco-scented hair prepare for knife -fight in the
kitchens, nights grow in my arms like unborn daughters. I whisper their names, sharpen pencils to
write down the colours of saffron desires fading in the sorrowing summer. How strange is the sound of false silence
over war and peace? None remembers why
Pushkin never returned from his exile. In the early mornings and late evenings,
I hear trees, flowers and snows wailing in the sun-shrouded dust of miseries in
Kyiv. My eyes are filled with toxic fumes arising from the burning shards of
lover’s bodies. Sounds of military boots behind, we meet in the dark
tunnel-alley, your tearless eyes flash like a golden tooth hidden in my mouth;
we slowly make love behind the piles of broken bangles. Ah, the taste of cheap
lipstick lingers on my dirty lips.
Haven’t we forgotten the language of surprise? Memories come in one or twos or suddenly like
a violent mob? What is the opposite of losing memory? Judges and gods are surprised that there is a Gulag in
everyone. My poet friend Serhiy Zhadan tells me they buried their solider son without his head. Who did he fight for? I asked. We don’t know, he
says. All I know he loved repairing
cycles and playing with marbles. What do I do now? There are only old men or women
in my house in Jorasanko; a sunset, a bonfire awaits. Must I come home anonymously like the
fragrance of sandalwood!Ashwani Kumar
Bio: Ashwani Kumar is a reputed Indian poet writing in English. His major poetry volumes include ‘My Grandfather’s Imaginary Typewriter’ and ‘Banaras and the Other’. Widely published, anthologized and translated into several Indian languages, his poems are noted for ‘lyrical celebration’ of garbled voices of memory and subversive ‘whimsy’ quality. Recently, a collection of his select poems titled ‘Architecture of Alphabets’ has been published in Hungarian. He is also one of the chief editors of ‘Global Civil Society’@ London School of Economics, and co-founder of Indian Novels Collective for promoting translation of classic novels from Indian languages. In leisure, he writes articles and reviews in the Financial Express, Outlook India, Scroll, The Hindu, Times of India, The Print among others. Presently, he is professor and dean of the school of development studies @ Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai.
No comments :
Post a Comment
We welcome your comments related to the article and the topic being discussed. We expect the comments to be courteous, and respectful of the author and other commenters. Setu reserves the right to moderate, remove or reject comments that contain foul language, insult, hatred, personal information or indicate bad intention. The views expressed in comments reflect those of the commenter, not the official views of the Setu editorial board. рдк्рд░рдХाрд╢िрдд рд░рдЪрдиा рд╕े рд╕рдо्рдмंрдзिрдд рд╢ाрд▓ीрди рд╕рдо्рд╡ाрдж рдХा рд╕्рд╡ाрдЧрдд рд╣ै।