Poetry: Srabani Bhattacharya

Srabani Bhattacharya

Marriage 

I moved into a beehive 

and the queen, all set 

in her way, doesn't 

welcome new stings 

I am an ant in a beehive 

and the queen bee 

plays a long and weary game 

with her drones 

Every day the search for sweetness 

dies thrice at meal times 

when she denies warmth 

deliberately. Sadistically.

Happily and it is tiring 

Exhausting to be an ant 

among drones who know 

their queen too well to stray 

or say no to a meal or two 

Every day the same protest—

meek words ignored 

at her behest. 

I am an ant 

Or was I? 

My antlers have melted 

My body is yellow 

and black and lo! 

I have wings 

now fluttering to fly with 

nowhere to go

***

 

Sultry songs of May

       After T.S. Eliot

Let us go you and I

As prayers are spread out against the sky

For the thousands on life support

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The unspoken retreats

Of restless nights in emergency wards

And sawdust public space with alcohol sprays:

Streets that follow like a slow sad playlist

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question...

Oh, do not ask, “Is this for our sins?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room masked women come and go

Murmuring of SpO2.

The sobbing rain that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The flickering heartbeat that shivers its muzzle on the ribcage,

Throbbing its helplessness in fingers on the dial pad,

Fidgeting on queues that stretch behind medical outlets,

Let us fall upon refusals from tired notice boards,

Bent down in beseech, to chance upon a miraculous post,

of a bed available on a frantic doomscroll,

As we curl up in a ball, and try to fall asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the words we never spoke,

While we wait for the pyre to blaze;

There will be time, there will be time

To mourn the news that we meet;

There will be time to hue and cry,

And time for all the anger and the hate

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred justifications,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before accepting an unjust grief.

In the room the masked women come and go

Murmuring of SpO2.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Is it fair?” and, “Is it fair?”

Time to lash out and ask why,

For gaping voids in staggering homes—

(They will say: “How much can the leader care”)

Their morning vitamin pill, their pending vaccine,

Their PPE suits, stacked with their last wills—

(They will say: “But how much has he done before!”)

Do I dare

doubt the government?

But in this minute there is only time

For burdened bills to disburse.

For I have said them all already, said them all:

Hollow comforts evenings, mornings, afternoons,

For they measure out life with silver spoons;

Over lungs rasping with a drained drawl

Over the wails from a farther room.

To watch grey smoke rise up from the gloom.

Note: This is a pastiche of T.S. Eliot’s ‘Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock’ first published in 1915.

***

 

The eyes are not here

All eyes and no tears makes Jack a hollow man

In a whisper or in a shout,

mornings are started with heads 

peeping at the stage 

looking for gaping eyes 

that I order shut so that I am left 

alone and have a few minutes yet  

to put on the costume and makeup, 

to plaster polished nicety on my face

For once I let slip I am awake,

there’s all sorts of prospects

served on a plate

and my average performance will begin

on the cheap stage of my room

Sometimes the foundation on my face

is too slippery, watered down 

and in want to drown all day 

to reject how every move 

of my limbs demands a reason

Even in afternoons less noisy 

with half the audience retired 

for a nap, the other half raises 

its head and creeps into the backstage 

and waits for the next act

Night time is a breathing space

until an audience member tiptoes 

and shocks me into confession. 

The eyes are back.

What is the point of mulling 

over all the escapades, 

the disputes when the prisoner 

on the stage dreads duress 

too much to find a way out. 

Note: The title and epigraph are references to T.S. Eliot’s Hollow Men.

***

 

Fra la la festive season

Deck the hall with vials of alcohol,

Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la!

’Tis the season of folly,

Fill the meadcup, drain the barrel,

(of hot water and turmeric)

Troul the ancient medical carol,

(star anise, cloves and cinnamon stick)

See the flowing bowl before us,

(Of tonics and charms)

Strike the harp and join the chorus.

Follow me in bitter measure,

(and watch the migrants scuffle)

While I sing of disastrous treasure,

(with deluge, cyclones, gas explosions)

Fast away the old forest passes,

into coal reserves

Hail the feud, ye rads and asses!

Of farm laws and self-reliance

Laughing, quaffing all together,

(Till laws equate regression)

Heedless of the wind and weather,

Let’s warm our toes in our warm shelters

Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la!

Note: The poem is a pastiche of the Christmas carol ‘Deck the halls’ whose English version dates back to 1862.

***

Oh Baby!

INT. SUBURBAN FLAT – NIGHT

WIFE

Oh baby, 

Married life’s getting boring.

Whatever shall we do?

HUSBAND 

Shall we fry a chop

and push her into this soup bowl

with all the meaty bits 

to float ‘round

wherever we push her to?

INGREDIENTS

Aloor chop (serves two)

Aloo – stuff your chop with lofty expectations; Besan – dip it in a batter of social status competition; Green chilies – mix in finely chopped passive aggression; Garlic – sauté to remove any shard of self-identity; Oil – deep fry until the raw smell of independence goes away; Salt – to taste just how we like it.

WIFE

Oh do, let’s put her in a pit 

against the other chops. 

HUSBAND

The neighbours have a crispy one.

Their chop sailed off to 

Canada last summer.

WIFE

Couldn’t we repeat 

his wondrous feat

lovingly in our chop’s ears

till we hammer her competitive?

BABY 

Oh, am I a good chop no more?

HUSBAND: 

Oh do, let her feel

all soggy and stale

until she sizzles to

get there too. 

WIFE: 

However else shall we brag 

in the next social town hall

that we fried the tastiest chop of all?

FADE OUT.

***

Bio: A poet, editor and copywriter based in Kolkata, Srabani Bhattacharya completed her MA in English Literature from Jadavpur University in 2019. Her works have been published on LiveWire, Muse India, NOVUS Art Literary Journal, The Kali Project, Silver Birch Press and other literary spaces. She was the finalist in Wordweavers poetry contest 2021 and Five Elements of nature poetry contest, 2021.

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Setu, December 2023