Bombaiyaa

Even after leaving the city for nearly eight years, my life in Mumbai has left an indelible mark on everything I think, say, or do. Here is a series of free form poems titled “Bombaiyaa” that reflect life in Bombay, that tell a true story about how some things were, how some things still are…

She made water from water

Every morning we rushed to the sink

To brush our teeth and wash our face

And as we turned on the tap

There was no water

To even wet our finger tips

But Ma stood there and smiled as she said,

“Let’s make water from water,

So we don’t fall short,

When the taps run dry.”

She’d rinse off the plates in a tub half full

And then serve that water to parched plants

There, she made water from water!

And after she’d wash the clothes

She’d pour the soapy water in toilet tanks

There again, she made water from water!

And the water flowed

From one tub to another

Not a drop unused

Not a drop abused

In the eve from five to six

The only hour when there was water

She’d gather all pots and pails

And rush down to the city tap

Where she’d fill them up

Some big, some small

And carry them up to the house

A pot on her waist and a pail in a hand

And when the day was over

As she’d sing us a lullaby

I’d feel the cracks on her warm hands

Dry from water;

From carrying water; pail after pail

I’d feel pain

Until one day when I saw a rope

Lying by the door

I tied one end to the pail

And dropped it down the terrace rail

Ma, she filled my tiny pail

As I pulled it up, emptied it in vessels

Sharing her cracks and pain

Before dropping it down

As she’d fill it again

Through long queues of other Mas

The water flowed from one pail to another

As we toiled the hour together

To fill water,

To make some more water.

—————————-

My old clothes

Her glass bangles tinkled

And the sweat born on her forehead

Trickled down her face

Telling a story from a faraway land

She rings the doorbell

One hand balancing a big tokri of vessels

And a shoulder bearing the weight of old clothes

“Get those old clothes we sorted,” shouts Ma

As she rushes to answer the doorbell

She places the tokri of vessels on the floor

And requests for old clothes

To exchange for her new vessels

A real barter in this day and age

Used clothes for unused vessels

The yarn for steel

She’sdressed like the sun

Bright yellow dupatta sprinkled with orange spots

Her blouse and skirt like the blue sky

She smells of the earth

That is clung to her skin

And the rims of her eyelids kohled black

Making hazy this world

The vessels clinker together

As she separates out the ones Ma wants

And bargains; less vessels for some more clothes

Her thinking face trying to make it the best stop

And after the deal is done

She adds my clothes to her potli

Puts the turban on her head

To balance the tokri of vessels on her head

And slinging the potli on her shoulder

She carefully rises to leave

Leaving me to wonder

Where my old clothes go.

—————————-

Ganesh meets Ganesh

The sun peeked through the Arabian Sea,

Rising up in the sky

As the moon hid behind the white clouds.

There were people running along the shore, some with their dogs –

a Dalmatian, an Alsatian, and two Afghan Hounds.

Ganesh stared into the sea

While standing behind his uncle Unni’s pav bhaji stall

Throwing loads of leftover food into the bin

And washing the stale plates.

His tiny fingers had become rough with the bad quality soap bar

And he wondered if his life stretched only as far

As the shore.

He walked towards the vastness

And emptiness

That filled him with gushing waves

And hope

That life would be better in due course

And as he stood staring at the horizon

His feet sank in the wet sand

Making footprints he wasn’t proud of

And just as he was about to turn away

He felt something at his feet

Something hard, yet warm

And as the waves huddled back

He saw a broken bust of Lord Ganesha

The colours intact – red turban with yellow stripes

A green sash around his torso

But chipped around the trunk

And eyes were stained like they were teary

It was only a few days ago that the idol must have been immersed

Into the darkness of the sea

After the festival lights were out

And we bid adieu to the Lord

Hundreds and thousands of idols

Worshiped and honoured

And then they float away

With the drifts in the sea

But God has His ways

And this one at his feet must be that God

Who paved his way against all waves

To be where He belongs

And now Ganesh no longer wonders

If life stretches only as far as this shore.

—————————-

Bear Tricks

I finished my homework

And put my  books aside

Rushed to the balcony

Staring down in anticipation;

It was time for them to arrive

Their black fur trimmed

For it was never cold in Bombay

It wasn’t too rare

To spot these sloth bears

On city streets,

They wore colourful clothes

And bells dangled around their necks

They were free spirits no more

For they were chained

And they looked sad as they clapped

And did summersaults

Stretching their palms for money

The man who trained them to be pets

Would pull the string around their necks

And drag them close to us

So we could pat them on their head

Like they were dogs

And after he collected the paisa

Strewn on the ground

Along with rotis

They would head for the next building

To perform the tricks

Life has played on them.