Citizenry

We know that all is renounced,
Dark renounced by night, motion by wind, it’s time of the angry arm
That chases homes and families from their treasures.
It is not the times of day sun or night moon and we are helpless
In our state of undress, with our things not in desired order
Our speech not ready yet, our thoughts undelivered to words
When the visitor comes to our midst, unforeseen.

Our city is at rest, unmoved, leaning against the black river,
And though we have had time enough to raise bridges over the flow,
To take our bones across, to Haridwar, Kashi, Mathura
We have not had enough time to build crossings of another kind,
For visitors from the other side, for the visit of the other
Bank this side.

And so we are quite unprepared and know not where to expect them,
And where to stand on the walled stretch of our city and when to wait,
So that we might offer the right welcome, so that we are not caught
Unawares.

We believe they will come, and we are scared.
We knot the ends of our clothes with cold fingers.
Do not come. We offer prayers every year,
We bathe in cold waters with our eyes clenched,
We offer prayers every morning and every night,
And on the wings of many tongued fire
Send tidings of our families and our tribes,
Send fruits and flowers, colour and sound,
Water and rice, smells and images.
Do not come.
We send money to our villages, where our old
Doubled with age and farewells appease the lesser gods.
So we are free from our troubles.
And their dreams.
We wear stones of many hues. We wear gold
And silver. We sleep knives hid under pillows.
Do not come.

We do not believe they live.
We have only to read enough, only to speak with those who are learned enough,
To consult the right doctors. It is nothing.
There are only desires.
What we need,
Is more freedom to disbelieve.
Do not come.
Do not come. Do not come.

We appreciate a good spectacle from this side of the road
At a safe distance, far enough for us to sympathise, and smile,
To share the turbulence of another’s death, another’s joy,
And so we hope there will come, a hero to our neighbourhood,
And to our neighbour's house, while we’re still alive and waiting.

We like to be assured that our travels will take us to known destinations,
That the road which leads us will lead there, will not press upon us
The need of decision, still worse of intuiting by ourselves.

We hope there will be no change in the old itinerary.
We are collectively peaceful before the narrative unfolds,
And are stirred by little changes in our ancient tales, effected
By an anxious director, an ambitious writer, an actor
Who forgets, who will not keep to his lines, an actress who plays
To us and innovates, touched by a virile wind that carries seeds
Of forbidden fruits to our back-yards and our lovingly tended
Kitchen gardens.

We have nurtured the city we inhabit.
We are nourished by it.
We are protected here.

But the city that comes to inhabit us?

We are unsure of what voices we must hear in the blowing winds,
The convulsing trees.

We are unsure of the bird that leaves marks on morning-wet banks,
And though the voices in the viscera of the temple conches
Ring a bell that is engaging, we would rather that the temples
Stood their ground,
And the cities kept her river.

We prefer to make our dwellings where the grounds are sure, to choose
An opportune moment to call on our deities in homes we give them
Than have the gods walk among our people and the heavens making
Untimely descent.

There was a city, a citadel mentioned somewhere - we have read
It somewhere, someone spoke of it. They lived among us for a while
And died, or lived on? How should we know? How should we know if they lied
A little, or not at all? Was it based on historical truth?
On facts that we can verify and record for further use, was it...

But there was a citadel it said, with ten doors and one more,
Let us not say who it was, let us not find a name,
Though we know it was his, let us not say what it was, who he was,
We have trouble enough getting by, finding our dim paths home.
It’s only this noise of winds rattling doors that makes us imagine things,
Only the birdless footprints that make us wonder and think about
A name and a place, about a name and a place
For him.

We would rather not meet the eye of what lies in the dark, behind,
In the past, sub-terranian, with all its causes and consequences,
The history of a man drawing his people, of a race weighing
Upon a man.

Building bridges over rivers we do sometimes look at it,
And in other times shiver with anticipation when she runs
Over our cattle and our cars, our fields and our citydoms.
Laying tracks over abandoned brambles, men among us unearth
One baked brick and another, sometimes a street, sometimes a township,
And we let the bricks fill the weak openings of our walls and lead
Them to our highway, and we slip the name of those men where books
Of history conveniently part, so that they have their right place
In our scheme of things, so that they can be cast into distant
Beginnings, from where conclude we, at the end of an unbroken line.

I, back at the Landlady’s

What comes without intimation, unlike the genial guest,
What crosses the eleventh gate
When the knots of certitude come undone.

Where seasons do not follow seasons,
Nor day night,
And a manner of greeting is practised,
Beyond the coupling and the meeting of the eye,

Who comes like rain out of season, unforeseen, shadow
Of a gone time,

Atithi, strange guest, come to this dwelling,
Where songs and stories float
With the remains of a million homes.