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| Shanta Acharya |
Exile
Alien,
outsider, firangi, gaijin, exile –
are some names
of the pariah gods of exile.
Once exiled, always
an exile; no place to call home –
a stranger in a
strange land, speaking in tongues of exile.
You learn to
stand alone, commit your faith to luck –
a roll of the
dice, the random walk of exile.
All your
efforts to belong somewhere thwarted
by shadows that
darken your life in exile.
Across the
world people dream of home and belonging,
not to uproot
themselves for a lifetime of exile.
A state of
mind, it is the freedom to die in
a world elsewhere from the loneliness of exile.
You offer
yourself, your treasures, knowing the world
is enriched
with the toil and tears of exile.
Only to see
your life’s work destroyed, unacknowledged,
not rise like
prayers in grand cathedrals of exile.
Your thunder
stolen, you rail within, ask the sky
why there is no
justice for the grief of exile?
The earth
blesses all migrations. They say God roams
the streets
disguised in tattered robes of exile.
If you have no
eyes to see I am human, feel my heart
beat with the
compassion of one in self-exile.
May peace and
enlightenment be yours, my soul –
Vilayat’s music
can only be heard in exile.
Dressing Up In Lockdown
A pristine summer’s day, sparkling like
champagne,
perfect for giving my garments an airing.
At home in a bubble of my own, lounging
in pyjama and dressing gown, numbering
my days’ illusions, comfort reigns over
style.
My wardrobe reprimands me, cries in chorus
–
saris complaining the loudest of not being
touched, embraced, admired – their silks,
chiffons,
satins, crepes, georgettes, chanderis,
mothballed
in tissue, chide me for starving myself
in the midst of plenty. Unable to ignore
their
pleas, I wear a sari with matching
jewellery,
spray myself with Nirvana and Eternity,
with a glass of bubbly, watch Downton
Abbey.
Looking for Myself
A work of art, covering the face of agony,
ecstasy is fleeting, not universally
shared.
Love may have a way of outlasting us,
change is our true companion in life.
Doubt plays a key part: like a child
enters my heart,
wrecks everything I place my faith in.
The hours rarely pass without tiredness
making
an appearance like the Chorus in a Greek
tragedy.
Why did I think it normal to crawl on the
floor
of the ocean of exhaustion, hoping for
redemption
or the sky to provide me asylum in her
kingdom?
Looking for myself among stars that lie
shattered,
having donated their everything to the
universe,
I discover the true meaning of altruism.
Living in a state of vulnerability,
hanging on
to the tree of life sucking hope, each day
a triumph
of improvisation, I pray for the
chronically fatigued.
When doctors talk of asthenia,
thalassaemia, genes and more,
I am in an IMAX movie theatre, watching an
unreal world
exploding at its seam. How does one get at
the truth?
Single, female, first generation
immigrant, no security,
intelligent, neurodivergent, born to be
different.
Don’t they know that loneliness is a cramping
of the
spirit for lack of companionship?
If only they knew the enterprise involved
in finding
one’s way through this universe of
unknowing?
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