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| Rachel Bari |
Not enough…ever
You see, it never is
The countless days of waiting
Tending, nurturing
Caring and concern,
The careful selection
Of shopping and food,
The whims and fancies
The moods and emotions
The comfort and gestures
The body and the mind.
Instinctively reaching out
To every unspoken wish
And craving...
Who will notice
Yesterday’s rice on the plate?
The leftover in the fridge
Where did it go?
Where did the roti made of
Yesterday ‘s atta go?
Whose stomach lining is grinding it?
Whose gut is groaning
Under the weight of the
Not so fresh food?
Who notices the everyday slog
The undemanding tongue
The undesirous eyes
The tired limbs
The equally tired mind?
The untidy clothes
Smelling of half pealed garlic
and sliced onions
Stained turmeric spoons
Unruly…
***
He wept
And
I
was lost
In
the intensity
of
the emotion
could not
fathom
He wept
As I
scooped
spoonfuls
Of
pur├йed rice
onto
a spoon
to his open
mouth,
his brain
sending
signals
Slowly
Oh
So
Slowly
He wept
I
did not.
could not.
A
mute bBeing
with
no
moorings
He wept.
A lone tear
escaped his tired
eyelids.
His eyes
do not focus
My hand in his
as I support him
to stand tall
brings back
memories
of him
holding me
as I fell.
He wept
Ninety two years
of tears.
***
Papa to me
Picture a little boy
Thin, bespectacled
Getting ready.
A shirt, pressed by weight
A shorts and a sandal
A mission was it was every month
He would trek 8 kilometers
A kilometer less
thanks to the railway line
Between kollam and his village
He would sing to pass time
As he trudged along
A thin lone boy
By his heels followed a dog
As was the routine
None trained him
He knew the exercise
And walked behind
Or beside the thin boy
Not much of a city but
bigger than the village
The boy walked a well trekked
Path accompanied by the dog
To a house surrounded by plants
A gate opened and to the house
The little boy would knock and wait
For the door to open
The old lady who appeared
With a smile and a loving hand
Over his back would take him in
Over the full meal once a month
She would talk to him,
An hour up, he would get up
Thanking her to leave.
A thin boy , serious and quiet
He would take what he came for
And leave , walking back 8 kilometers
Picture this routine, in 1937
for two rupees, this little boy
Trekked 8 kilometers
That two rupees fetched
Fees and food…
A bespectacled little boy
Papa to me.
***
Silence
The Lord is speechless
Years later Beckett would say
Words are an unnecessary stain
On silence
Lord Ram thought so
Words remained in origins
In shoonya, in a void
Swirling.
He listened to the cries
Of farmers dying and food
Dried up, saw the land parched
Dust
Silence all around as silent cries
Rent the air, life went on
As orphans and widows
Mourned, dry eyed
***
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