Riya.

Riya. She was named after my mother. Three years old and pleasantly shy – she had her eyes. Not an unusual colour, liquid brown and strangely evocative, but hauntingly beautiful. And when you looked into them, you looked into innocence, in a strange simple blend of mystery and reality, the way the world might look to a child.

Her mother’s hand rested gently on her light curls, as she stood timidly by the door, sizing me up. “Do you remember your grandfather, Riya?” Pratima said, softly.

She cocked her head to one side, her ear brushing against her needlessly elaborate collar; her frock fell in lacy swathes about her ankles. She hadn’t seen me for a year and a half.

I hesitated for a second, and then stretched my arms wide. And the girl ran into them, laughing, as if she’d known me for years.

Pratima smiled quietly and disappeared beyond my doorway.

“Do you like it here, Riya?” I asked. “Up here in the mountains?”

“Yes, Dadu.” Her voice was young – far younger than any I’d heard in years and years. And her words clear and distinct – unusual for her age. “When Ma told me about the mountains I didn’t think they’d be so pretty.”

“You don’t feel lonely?” I asked, her confident words and grown-up phrasing unsettling me. Had she been taught what to say? “I know you don’t really have anyone to play with here.”

“No,” she said, bright eyes traveling quickly to look into my own, a little perplexed. “It isn’t lonely. There’s the rose garden – the flowers. The trees – ”

And then, in the same distinct clear voice, she said – “And there’s always Adi. He plays with me. So do Ashok and the other Riya.”

I blinked. Breathing fast, I looked at her face. She was so young – so little. Was she playing with me?

“What names did you say?” I asked, gripping her arms tighter than I should have.

She looked away, a little frightened. “Ashok, Riya and… and.. Adi.”

I let go of the girl and slumped back onto my pillow. Ashok was my father’s name. And Riya – my mother. They’d died years ago – years before Riya was born. And Adi – Aditya was my son. Pratima’s older brother who’d left us at the age of…of four and a month. The house was miles away from the nearest hill station and monsoons were treacherous n the mountains.

“You… played with them? You saw them? Here?”
Little Riya laughed. “Yes, yes I did! We played pretend. And horses… and the other Riya told me stories about the moon and the stars. Adi, Ashok and I played catch in the garden.”

“How…how do they look?” I asked, weakly.

Riya turned towards the window and a smile spread across her face. “Adi’s calling me now, Dadu. To go out and play.”

She bent over and kissed my cheek. Then, in a whirl of white lace and brown curls, she skipped out of the room.

I turned slowly to look at the window. Sunlight poured through the empty archway, lighting up my little lonely room.

______________


My wife died that year. And my health failed. Always shut up in my little room overlooking her rose garden and the hill slopes beyond, I waited. Pratima came to visit in summer, she hardly had time anymore. We’d talk now and then over the telephone – and there’d be a few letters. But the post was slow in these areas. And Pratima never had much to say. Riya was growing older – she didn’t like lace anymore.

A year since I’d seen them last, Pratima and Riya stood at my door, looking uncertainly at me. Riya’s eyes were different now – older. Stronger.

I sat up, just as before, and held out my arms welcomingly to her. And just as before, she smiled – perhaps a little quieter this time – and rushed into them.

Pratima left quietly.

I waited till she was gone and leaned forward excitedly. I had been waiting so long.

“Riya – do you see them now? Ashok, Riya and little Adi?”

The girl flinched – and drew back sharply, her brows knotted.

“And Dida? Do you see Dida?” I asked, eagerly.

Riya shook her head, her eyes puzzled, and … afraid. “Dadu, what are you saying?”

I searched for that gaiety in her eyes – the confident friendly assurance that I’d seen before. And I didn’t find it.

She drew back slowly from my bed. “Who are all those people?” she whispered.
And then, even softer, leaning her head forward and drawing her feet away slowly, she said – “Dida – Dida died last year, Dadu! Don’t you remember? How can she be here?”

I stared at her – my arms going limp – my eyes clouding over. “You…don’t see them?”

She looked at the door wildly. “I think… I think Ma’s calling me, Dadu. I have to go.”

And she backed away towards the doorway, keeping her fearful gaze on me. Then she was gone.

My wife tightened her grip on my hand from her stand by the side of my bed as I watched the girl leave. And little Adi just stood at the foot of my bed and smiled mischievously at me.

when we look away

A breeze meant to blow through the woodwind rushes lost itself in step.
And thunder once awoken grew older and older till forests swayed and broke.
And today the stars fell behind to sound impure by the darkness of a lens.
A flash where the laughter was – and the rest is old magic tomorrow.
And we forget – only to remember – the glint of an eye in the dark.
And magic where it wasn’t – old songs in the old rain.
Much that was ours is the wind and the sprites play softly.
Softly. In the dark when we look away. They listen for our tears.
And they grow wiser - the notes grow wiser at the wetness if things.
At the dryness of love washed away by the hours – and the wait.
The thought is remembered and the song plays on forever.
A whistled tune in the growing silence – till only silence moves on ahead.
Much that was ours is the earth and the sprites sing softly.
Softly. Beneath the dust when we look away. They listen for our tears.
And we hold the world to account – time to account for our mistakes.
Spent and sore in remembrance – till the laughter reaches us again.
And the dulled lights return – fleetingly – for a glimpse of something left behind.
The stars rock gently, cradling them to a lulled sleep. We stay awake.
And whisper things left unsaid across worlds that never existed.
Till the waves break again on the woodworked shore. A dream wakes.
Much that was ours are the dreams and the sprites play softly.
Softly. In the memories when we look away. They listen for our tears.

A Fable of Fools, Part 3

read part 1

read part2

Then the stars came up.
And the intellectual tried very hard
To trace out the constellations.
“That’s the Dancing Palmyra,” he said at last,
Pointing at a smudge of stars directly overhead.
“It means we’re in the southern hemisphere.”
“It means you’re making things up now.” I said.
The D#s were more frequent at night.
But no one asked the piper to stop.
Something was washed ashore in the dark.
But no one got down to find out what.
I noticed the plumber hardly slept
Or maybe it’s a little hard sleeping on a shared palmyra palm branch.
He wasn’t counting the stars and yet
His eyes followed their cycle all the way.
Dawn was shriek from the racehorse rider
Who had no memory of dawn.
And a loud swear from the intellectual
Followed immediately by a poetic description
Of the dazzle on the wet waves
And how the refracted rays reach us early.
This time I’m sure he knew but none of us were listening.
The piper had been playing through the night.
And now he began the morning with a major progression.
The D#s screeched in our heads.
As I joined the racehorse rider on the sand.
The something was a little black flag.
It didn’t have the skull and cross bones we were expecting.
But the painting of a small dog
With a pink ribbon on her head.
And a pink coat below it.
And a pink tongue hanging out of it.
And presumably a pink brain inside of it.
Since it had succeeded in washing up
Onto a five-foot diameter island
In the middle of the Pacific
With five people on a palmyra palm.
Which was hanging noticeably lower than yesterday.
And wrapped in the flag was an egg.
A bright pink egg with a small crack across it.

Since there are always cracks on eggs that turn up suddenly.
The intellectual was all for eating it up immediately.
And we guessed the piper agreed.
Because we heard an accelerando.
The racehorse rider was wearing the flag as a cape
When the plumber suddenly came out of his trance
And demanded the egg.
“I eat one-fifth!” the intellectual was saying –
“Not to eat – to hatch,” he said.

Chinese tea.

Chinese tea?
He looks up, confused.
At least his movements are confused…dazed…like he’s forgotten his glasses and just realized they weren’t on his nose.
But behind those shades…blind? Is he blind?…it’s impossible to tell.
There is a silver chain dangling out of his breastpocket.
A pocket watch? Vintage?
He slips his hand out of his coat pocket.
A handkerchief.
Laced…it’s laced?
White and laced.
And he wipes the sweat off his brows.
Only there wasn’t any sweat to begin with.
The swing doors glide apart and a blast of hot afternoon Kolkata air storms into the air-conditioned room.
Chinese tea?
No…er…what was that?
Chinese…
He waves his hand.
Not now.
His shoes…look for his shoes.
Kolapuri sandals.
And a bloodstain.
Blood.
Dull dark black gory magic.
Run away.
Is he hurt?
Are you hurt?
Just the market? Chicken? Fresh meat...?
He stands up.
Heavily.
The loo?
And sits down again.
Not sits…falls. Into the plush seats. Cheap plush seats. Beautiful cheap plush seats.
That way.
Which…what?
Drunk?
There’s a scent of aftershave. Cheap aftershave. But aftershave. Subtle.
Not drunk.
He’s breathing fast. Suddenly.
A doctor? No. Water? No.
There’s a shout outside. Traffic. Crowds. Heatwave.
April. Kolkata April afternoon sun.
A doctor.
Another shout outside.
The swing doors screech.
He’s standing up.
The loo?
They’re running. He’s running. The swing doors screech in the tension.
Kolkata April afternoon sun.
Traffic. Crowds. Heatwave.
They’re rushing in. Everything’s exploding. Fire?
Just the sun. And the crowds rushing in.
There’s been an accident.
He falls over.
On the floor.
Shiny polished marble. Kolapuri sandals. A bloodstain.
He’s run over someone.
A little girl coming home from school.
Two little pigtails.
Kolapuri sandles. And a bloodstain.
A shiny polished marbled floor.
A white ambassador. A red ambassador. An orange and yellow ambassador. A black ambassador. Dust. Rust. Dust. Rust.
In the wind.
Kolkata April afternoon sun wind.
A trail of sweat on the polished marble floor. Where they dragged him out.
Into the Kolkata April afternoon sun.
A white laced handkerchief. A red laced handkerchief. An orange and yellow laced handkerchief. A black laced handkerchief. Dust. Rust.
Shattered glass.
Not inside.
The temperature levels as the air-conditioner restores the cool.
Fresh meat.
Chinese tea?

...and a memory.

This is the story of a song.
It is a song that grew –
Running around the flowers
Bitter-sweet dewy mornings.
A song that tried
So hard – to break out
Into the world.
A song that hummed
Inane unheard fantasies
In a tousled head
Behind lost eyes.

This is the story of a song –
A song that found a tune
Among half-lit stubs
Of glowing cigarettes
And little toppling stacks of ash –
Dust grey and yellowing.
Among baby green blades
Of new grass – underfoot.
A song that flitted around
Untuned guitars –
Laying to dust in a sunlit corner
By a cracked window
And a misfit curtain
Canvas and the paints
Were lost somewhere in between
With the fifth string.

Between the broken semitones
Of an old piano
With a croak.
And lay to rest
In the folds of the draperies
Magic and coffee
On a winter morning.

A song that trembled
On drunk fingers
Yellowing skin and uneven nails
Resting against the keys
Jerking to life –
And then laying down again
Withered and wearied.
A song that died
On an empty gravestone
With a voice –
And a memory.

Tamu.

Tamalika. Running to the camera. As usual. The yelp at the beginning is bhoda, who she used to sing 'my bonnie lies over the ocean' for. You can see him at the door. Googli at the camera.