**
Tea with Reza
By Nabina Das
Little glasses warmed by steam
Posing ballerinas pirouetting in silver holders
Glassy eyes too from steaming tears in
Tea-colored eyes
The kettle whistled Reza said, like
The train whizzing past his little
Iranian township that sang
Khoshbakhtam, khoshbakhtam!
Where poplars grew tall, very tall
Reza’s arms ceramic and
Bent bow-like from his time in jail
In a dark cell where he wasn’t given
Books to read or
Newspapers but just lashes and blows
Now and then for reading Marx
At the university
His tealeaf eyelids brimming up
With that memory …
He handed us glasses on silver holders
Held them tender, candles during prayer
The Revolution was not for my
Heart and soul, Reza cried
O my dear comrades, O my friends…
I came to be with you for freedom
And manifestos and democracy
Talks showering morning’s calm
On poplars I loved, my friends loved
Friends who were lost and gone
For singing The Internationale
Their arms bent too, cracked ceramic
Backs scarred, resting in unknown graves
Sometimes letters from prison came
Once a year, till they stopped, mentioning
The smell of tea freshly brewed
Just like this, verses of aroma
Coiling over us during our tea
With Reza one nineties evening…
He still waits in exile.
First published in Mad Swirl
**
Waiting on the News
By Nabina Das
Come Aitaa
we must discuss before time if we want radishes in this year’s garden
green gourds climbing a common fence, sure, you can have some
also coriander to sprinkle on the pitika for a late afternoon meal
bhoot-jolokia that no one will eat, the army fancies it now we know
the newspapers have it all, the tea shops get their fortune told
Come Aitaa
Let’s talk about the one-legged pigs and calves born this year
the ducks that won’t stop chasing the hens even if you yelled,
about the corner-shop Bipin I’m not sure, his ma died crying
for he was gone in the forest, they say, to become an insurgent,
but the mother said… to find the old dog Gela of the mangy coat--
to those stories Aitaa, my answers are slippery feet on oil
Come Aitaa
Let’s walk down the paddy lanes just till the town bus stand
While you wait for aunt Moromi; I’ll tell you why Aslam won’t sell
His fish cheap even if you swear on the hungry-mouthed floods
forsaken huts and the fungal pots pans we won’t ever throw away
but if you wonder why the one-eyed Harekrishna didn’t return
from the big market of Ganeshguri, no ID, no whereabouts
Aitaa, I swear on my loveless luck I’d have to invent a new fairytale.
This work is supported by Sarai-CSDS, Delhi, under an Associate Fellowship
The Woman from Both Sides
By Nabina Das
When they came home they praised
Her for her naked room, the swiped floor
Kantha-stitched cushion covers and a neat
Tulsi plant doing a dhamail in the breeze
When they arrived at the garden gate they
Marveled at the roses she grew after meals
The verandah with old cane stools dozing
Before evening gods would arrive for alms
When they were asked to say a few words
They saw her brass urns glint on shelves
Filled with partition stories, re-invented,
Re-told with new metaphors washed clean
With her starched chemise in this side’s sun
They wept to see her calmer than usual
So, they sat down by her body’s silence
When they looked at her all wrapped in white
Sandal scents holding on tight to a gray lock
Tucked behind the right ear, they also saw
Her fingers soiled from that side, maps of tales.
This work is supported by Sarai-CSDS, Delhi, under an Associate Fellowship
**
After the Show
By Nabina Das
We were on the paddies
we walked gingerly
toes to toes to heels
against toes
they said someone
might be following us
We were on
the rails of words
we spoke less
just squeezed
proverbs like stress balls
or mother’s hand
We were inside night’s
armory where
owls sharpened our
verbs of anxiety
skunks clawed at rising
codas of our breaths
We were sweaty
after our show
each one of us done
with our roles
entering a new theater
with the summer mist
where our faces
were terracotta
against the thuds
of rifle butts someone
said would follow us
till the journey’s end
We were deep
inside a language
whose dialogues
rang in a darkness
bright as the ancient
demon’s teeth
its beastly innocence
shone through our flak
There were flowers
red and green
there were the gods
fallen face down
songs about how
they all became
absent mannequins
also songs the grain-
thrashers sang
in the split of
old war stories
then we rehearsed
another new scene.
This work is supported by Sarai-CSDS, Delhi, under an Associate Fellowship
**
Ahalya’s Wish
By Nabina Das
Her visit made everyone run
fetch her special seat, water glass
a separate special plate, later scoured
separate, after her after-work snack
We kids ran in a tumult to see if
her teeth were different in number
than the last time, slurpy betel
juice soaked, scary monster-red
Mother made chitchat, served her
coconut candies in summer
black sesame sweets in winter
with jaggery or handmade bread
Aunts poured her water slowly
careful not to spill, not to mop
once she cleaned the outhouse
a relic from an unknown rural life
Once she cut the shrubs, weeded, threw
the dead skunk in a ditch and cleaned
up, we kids asked her to pick a name that
she’d like to be in her dreams so she
could be allowed to play with us
make us clay dolls of earthly shapes
Her dark forehead gleamed, no sindoor
the sari-end bunched at her sagging breasts.
Her instant candor still rings in my head:
“I’d like to be made flesh, don’t know the name,”
she said. “Feet first, I will touch everything.”
This work is supported by Sarai-CSDS, Delhi, under an Associate Fellowship
**
