The perennial question

The question you asked me,
the perennial question really,
probably asked by millions of people
who left behind the home they grew up in
But I haven't left my home, not yet,
merely found myself in a country
that doesn't belong to me.
So how do you identify yourself?
Is there a dissonance?
For that I would have to trace myself
all the way back to the summit of Koubru
where we once dwelled,
because everything else was a vast
expanse of water, when the water retreated
we stepped into newly formed land,
leaving behind our abode in the clouds;
and then the oft-repeated story, sung
as songs, the filling of the swamps,
the clearing of the woods, the sowing
of the seeds, of Gods and their mortal lovers,
a love that didn't last.
But facts are scarce and far-between,
I make myself up as I go, string bits
and pieces of stories together,
One in the long line of the witches
that elude, breaking down the old
with our laughter, creating anew
with spells wistfully whispered.

Its been a while so first there is the

awkward laughter to get past, then ofcourse

the relief at the familiarity, the filling up

of the lost years, like sand slipping through

the fingers, and the disbelief in your voice

that my life did not mirror yours,

a guarded distance now, a fractured smile;

you had been in love only

with the idea of me anyway.

The art of leaving

The wintry winds have brought with it
 the ancient lores Abok-Ahanbi would tell you
 to ease you to sleep

The story of the seven wise men of yore

Who shapeshifted into birds and flew away

When the king gave the decree

 To burn all our ancient books,

There is an art to leaving,you are thinking,

Because sometimes that is all there is left to do

Because partly hardly wildly

you are still looking for a great adventure

 to set out to and in your heart of hearts,

 in your dream of dreams,

you know this is not where the story ends

So you leave with a spell whispered

Because wild hearts can never be tamed,

Only loved, only craved.

How you still read my words
the way I want to be read
We got a lot of things wrong,
but this strangely stayed
And even though years and kindness
separate us now, I am always
so touched when you tell me so,
Always tell me so.

Because partly partly partly...

Sharing a book with you, courtesy Frank O’Hara

 who must be quite mad at me for borrowing

 his opening lines ever so often,  is more fun

than going through a whirlwind of parties and after-parties,

partly because we had written similar

dedications to each other, partly because

at my age, which is not all much really but I do feel quite old

but not too wise, I have realised how precious

female friendships are, the ones premised on

“saving the world” if you will, one person at a time,

one book at a time,  .

At this stage of my life when I seem to have outgrown most

Of my friends, I am so glad we are exchanging notes

On our lives, the way I used to when I was younger

and had a best friend who I have now seem 

to have lost to time and distance.  

And I would rather share this Delhi winter afternoon

having  a conversation with you, flitting from one topic to another,

to keep rolling the wheel of discourse is the endeavour.

By now we are giddy on wine and ideas, 

and planning backpacking trips through Europe(a cliche?),

also terribly inspired that you have taken up painting again.

And here we are, taking a respite from our newly adult lives,

faltering, bruised but laughing till our stomachs ache.

Because not every poem needs to be a love poem

Nor every muse a paramour.

Today you walked over, out of the blue really
And all of it is a little bit of a dream,
It must be because you somehow convinced
me to meet your family, and they are passing on
wine glasses to me, your friends are teasing you
about your ex-lovers, the crazy ones,
I am especially amused by the knife wielder,
There is a canyon that separates us,
And we are strangers in an intimate dinner
yet you are sitting right next to me,
asking me if I am alright, asking me for
confirmation, asking me if I wanted to eat yet,
in the middle your sister asks me which year
I graduated from college, when I say 2014
she says," you are such a baby" and this
beautiful friend of yours whispers "cradle-snatcher"
to you, and I am partly laughing, partly annoyed
at being thought too young because I really enjoyed
this, more than I have enjoyed going out with
people my own age, who terrify me with
their ridiculousness. You and I both have a flight
to catch tomorrow, at different times to different places.

Treachery, that is how I see it now,
Political motives but also deeply personal
Running over all these years, hissing
and heaving in your house of worship,
To think that I didn't see it all these years,
All those nasty things said I felt deserved
 the guilt I bore for my people and their ritual cruelty,
for their categories of clean and unclean
But I could never have guessed the extent of
such treachery, to starve us to death,
to block our lifelines, does your God condone it?
To demand it for yourself, to deny it for others,
How do you reconcile your praise of God,
your Sunday worship to such vileness?
There had been a time when I hadn't
 seen the difference between us,
but then again I had never
 believed in an infallible God.