Childhood 9 : Eighteen (via Fifteen Point Five)

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Eighteen (via Fifteen Point Five)

Infinite kindness resides
In corners closed to the world.
Fear of discovery ruins human completeness --
Shit, not again.

The caffeine runs stale in my mouth:
Nightly cravings for spray-dried milk.
The best of times are sometimes
Borrowed ones. I think
Now I can sleep.
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It is your childhood that ultimately gives you the strength to be an adult. And hence, with a child-sized poem, I conclude the Childhood series. Much love to you all.

Childhood 8 : Lessons

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Lessons

I was told:

I am young,

I am small,

I am weak;

I was told:

I can't sing

And can't do math.

I laugh now

But then it stung

Really bad.

Now I know

I am strong.

Being a child,

Being a girl,

Being short and fat,

Is not wrong.

I am stronger

Than you think --

My Spoken English

Made you mad

But it's not bad

Not if I speak

Bangla too

And Hindi, yes

And French, soon;

Someday I

Will beat you down.

And you who love me

But still said

That it's okay,

If there are

Boys around

To do my share,

To leave me be

Without work --

Even where

I could learn,

Even if

I need to learn.

You will see

What I can be.

There is no

Alternative.

My quality

Is mine alone:

No boy, no girl,

But just me.

Think sometimes

Of things you learnt

Before you knew

They existed.

They could be wrong,

I could be right.

I don't deserve

To be left behind.

I'm not a mean

Of the world.

I am a single

Random sample --

Statistics

Don't work on me.

I am one,

Not the world;

Not every woman

With long hair;

Not every student

Of my age;

Not every person

From my state.

I am me,

An assemblage

Of everyone

I've ever met

And everyone

I ever was

And all I am

And will be,

All combined

So precisely

That there's no one

Just like me:

Look at me.

Figure me out.

I'm non-trivial

So take your time.

Let me teach you

What I am.

I might be

Young and small

But about me

I know best.

You'd know better

Of all the rest

But me one-o-one

Is my thing.

There's no textbook.

There are no notes.

You have to think,

You have to work.

The assignment

Is simple, really

Let me be.

Let me learn.

Let me work.

Let me grow.

Let me shine,

And wait and watch.

Judge me only

By my work

And perhaps

By my love

But not by what's

Inside my pants,

Or the length

Of my hair,

Or my age,

Or how I speak;

You must learn

Not to care

Of things outside

This curriculum

That I've built

All these years

With my blood

And tears and sweat.

If you must judge

Then it becomes

Compulsory

To do it right.

Learn me from me

And nothing else

And no one else.

Don't analyse,

Don't generalize.

It's necessary

And sufficient

To believe every

Word I say

When I'm talking

About me.

And then give me

Space and time

To walk the talk,

And you will find

Your all important

QED.

I am prepared

To defend

All my claims

Of ability,

But not my life:

Not my clothing;

Nor my fat;

Nor my hair;

Nor my love

For Pujo, Tagore

Or hilsa fish --

It's out of syllabus,

Forget it.

And if you need

More assistance

Ask the fingers

That scrape my head

From inside

Until I wish

That I was dead..

...told you, sir!

I'll surprise you

If you'll only

Hear me out

When I speak

About me

And dare to listen

Carefully.

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Childhood 7 : Indulgence

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Indulgence

I wouldn't want to hurt you
And it hurts you when I cry
So when I'm with you, I promise
I'll really, really try
To smile always, and laugh --
Whatever you do or say --
And never to bother you
To wipe my tears away
But sometimes I can't help it.

At many a sunrise
How wonderful you were
Brought tears to my eyes.
Far away from home, I had
A brother by my side --
And so, although I'd rather not,
I'm sorry, but I cried.
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To the extraordinary Ritwik da.

Childhood 6 : Silent Stars

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Silent Stars

I will speak of silent things:

Silent nights, silent birds,

Silent flights on silent wings...

...and whispering of silent things.

I will hear the silent wind

Silently touch your quiet face...

...softly then, and quiet still,

I'll let it fold me in embrace.

And there in that silent night

The quiet and us will all be friends

And quietly still, all our pasts

Will join hands to make amends.
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To Ranjani and the CMI hostel terrace, because both are exceptionally beautiful; and also to the idea of living in the present, because there is nothing else quite like it.

Childhood 5 : Imagination

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Imagination

His night is dark, so in city lights
He never sleeps.
Having faced scarce a brick wall,
He never stops.
He slept under infinite stars: numbers
Are his friends --

The city limits us, but he is free.

In the farmlands of the hinterland,
Books don't punish.
They don't prod or goad or compel,
For they are joy
To collect, covet, play with,
Pass the time --

Opportunity limits us. He's free.

The time that we wait for to come
For him, is now.
The growing up that was never ours
Is his, by fire.
We live by clocks -- he is disciplined
By the ancient sun.

Indian Standard Time sets him free.

When spoken to, we attempt to find
Meaning and logic.
He understands words as his books
Told him they were.
We imagine the future, best and worst
He feeds on today.

Unchained by fantasy, he is free.
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Dedicated to my new brother at CMI: the inimitable PBT.

Childhood 4 : Conjuring (or Little Fibs)

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Conjuring (or Little Fibs)

The wind would carry you someplace

And the sun would call elsewhere:

So, to lose your face with none,
You told some little fibs.

To the wind you said, "I'm too heavy",

To the sun, "I'm much too dark";

And to the world, "Take me or leave me,

Smoke and mirrors and all".

Your white lies were fooling no one

But the ones you loved the most.

Those who knew, were young and new --

They simply didn't care.

Your box of tricks had lights and smells
That thralled them days on end,
Your magic lighted many smiles,

And emboldened many a tread

But when, one day, you stole some rest
They saw your tortured face
And, with it, the tired world
As it truly lay

And they thought, "When we were broken
This kid cooked a fix;

To make our world less like his own

He brought his magic tricks --

And, maybe, in conjuring

Our world of serene nights
He weaved a story of loving lies...

...but he's sweet, so that's alright.

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Childhood 3 : Make-believe

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Make-believe

I like to leave before a party ends

Because then I can pretend it never did;

Or, that it ended because

I was the life of the party.

I like to believe that, in sunsets,

There are strange writings and coloured skulls --

And that, when it's dark,

They let loose and dance.

I like to think of my food and drink

As a bond between me and the earth

And of my friends as my link
To all human flesh.

I like to believe that all my people
Are real, and exactly how I want them,

And not as they are, because
That would be way too sad.

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Childhood 2 : Amma

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Amma

One does not require a child
To become a mother.
As the saying goes, a mother
Is one whose soul lives
Outside her body;
Or even, I dare say, his.

A mother of one is a mother
To all Creation --
Because the sacrifice learned
Cannot be unlearned,
And because motherhood
Is a state of being
And a constant choice.

Who worries enough about you
Is your mother --
Who asks if you had enough
Of milk, curd, tea;
Or worries if your friends
Are treating you well
Becomes your mother.

So here's to those mothers who toil
To mother differently;
To those fathers who toil double
To be a mother as well;
And to that mother in Chennai who
Was quick to adopt
Her child's new friend.
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Inspiration credit: Mothers of UG2015 CMI-ites, especially Malavika's mother.

Childhood 1 : Apparitions

So, once again the idea for one poem has gone haywire in my head with enough intensity to make me consider a series. Tentatively the series is called 'Childhood', and may contain prose pieces as well. We shall see. For now, here's the first one, inspired by life at CMI and specifically my first friend there, Subhayan.

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Apparitions

Two friends chatting on the ledge
Living life on concrete edge
Too many lights, and sounds too few,
And ghosts, and trees, and Scooby Dooby-Doo.

Precious possessions behind the door
Left unlocked 'cause the locks are a bore --
Watch it for me, please, will you?
Scooby Dooby-Doo, where are you?

Scooby Dooby-Doo, what do you find
In spaces ten times multiplied,
In water glasses measuring time,
And darkened stories missing rhyme?

Mystery Machine whirs on alright;
(Words, Cradle, Starry Night...!)
When one day Fred will drop the wheel,
Scooby Doo, how will you feel?

When Daphne becomes someone else's,
Velma drops her patent lenses,
Shaggy ceases to believe --
Scooby Doo, will you still live?

When all the questions have been asked,
Mysteries solved, and ghouls unmasked,
When all that you said becomes true,
Scooby, will they still love you?
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