My Favourite Works: Sukrita Paul Kumar

Sukrita Paul Kumar

FUGITIVE

But the bird

out of the cage, with the

nervous flutter of unused wings

is the woodpecker suspended in air

dreaming of drilling

and drumming into

the belly of the banyan tree

in blinding dazzle of freedom

seeking a recluse

away from the bells

and whistles of the cage

roosting in solitary confinement

self-imposed

in the dark crevices of the trunk

picking on termites

and on the sap

Out of the iron bars of the cage

that had a saucer of water, of food

but no keys to the holes in trees, nor

to bits of the sky

***

AT WAGAH

At Wagah

I love you the most

The border, marked by the spectacle of

stomping army boots, shining medals

beating their chests

into the rising and setting sun

The day becoming night, and the night day

when the guards on both sides

change bang bang

I love you the most

at Wagah

when the guns are raised to salute

separation, division and rupture

when the neighbour dies and wears the shroud

becomes enemy all at once

My friend, you go away

only as a bird does

flying in the free skies

When lines of hatred rise

against prayer flags

Wagah happens

And I love you the most

because you are on the other side

of the border

***

ARRIVAL AT PARIS

Many came, knocked at the door

and went away

but my friend

Simone de Beauvoir

you didn’t

you haven’t left

The Second Sex, Mandarines and all

pulling at the delicate membranes

of my brain, my self

Unknotting ritual from emotion

on the cross roads

of all paths

of my loves and my hates

you entered the doors and windows

of my inner scape

My guiding star, my lighthouse

my friend, you are my enemy

Let’s face it

my arch enemy

Flinging me far

out into the sea

amidst sharks and whales

you led me to rivers of fire

Ismat, Annie Apa and Sylvia Plath,

Lal Ded and Maya Angelou too

All men, my meditations

for the birth of a ball of

light and flames

My icon of worship

the Greek androgyny swinging

hand in hand

with Ardhnarishwar

Landing on this land, Paris

I see it all —

the ashes of lava

over Simone’s territory disperse

the fireballs of light darting

between the East and the West 

Beyond gender

beyond the male and the female

***

Pilgrim’s Progress

Buried in the debris

near the blind well

in the jungle

are a thousand tales

nibbled by scurrying rats

and infected by amnesia

Bits of tales peep out

as if sticking their tongues

through fine slits

in the wrinkled surface

of the heap

hardening over time,

with more and more

thorny creepers and shrubs

gripping the forest

in a net

from which slip out

dead voices severed

from their bodies,

inviting lovers

to come down the spiral steps

carved on his chest,

to reach the womb of time

and touch the

beginnings of history.

***

When my shadow

overtook me

I knew

I had crossed the sun.

***

When the root

lifted itself

as a flower

to face the sun bravely

it started

to rain

***

We the Homeless

Madamji,

Can you get me

My mai?

My home.

Slapping the dust off himself

The little boy

queried, his eyes rolling in hope,

Through long barbed moments

between us

he stared

into my vacant face

filling me

fiercely

with motherhood.

***

Saabji,

Said the boy from Badayun,

Teach me to write a letter,

A letter that my old Ma can read,

She never went to school, Saabji!

And remember, Saabji,

I won’t learn to write

what she can’t read

***

One day

All those stories

Twiddling their thumbs

Behind the shutters

 

Half smiles peeping

from fathomless eyes

Will roll down the cheeks

as tears;

 The ocean spilling

its sorrow

into the growing emptiness

Of  the universe.

***

As we taught them alphabets

bonding into words of kinship

A mere device to teach language, I thought

I learnt many lessons

From their instant recognition,

 Their intimations of home and

My own homelessness.

***

Dreams are to be dreamt in sleep

To die when the eyes open,

Deny them, dismiss them

For the green pastures are nowhere

Dreams sink like paper-boats 

when belief sits in them

Each day,

I must work, I must earn

And eat, just so

That I go home

But that too is a dream, I confess.

***

 

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Setu, November 2023