Om: A Cerement
Architecture of frozen music.
— Goethe
In my city, I am surrounded by constant cries
of the dying, burning pyres heaving
under burden of wood, smoke and bones —
wailing summed up by sonic notes of Om.
Civilisation’s first sound—Sanskrit syllable
echoing a conch shell’s harmonic mapping —
its involute spiral geometry holding within
and emanating airborne sonar screams.
My ancestors, grandmothers, mother — blew
into this smooth shell cupped in their palms,
held intimately as if it were a talisman,
a prayer, a pranayam in yoga’s daily ritual.
But breathing is a privilege these days —
pandemic-struck, oxygen-deprived,
my friends perish, the country buckles, airless.
Even an exquisite cerement lacks the sheen
or wax to wrap the contours of a corpse now.
Each day as I write endless condolence notes,
etching dirge-like couplets on gravestones —
my city continues to be dug up — not to make
space for burial sites, but for palaces of illusion:
an architecture of frozen music, greed, calumny.
A country without a government,
a country without a post-office—Shahid laments:
“Let me cry out in that void, say it as I can.
I write on that void.”Om’s celebration now
an unceasing requiem. Yet we chant in hope,
for peace: Om Shantih, Shantih, Shantih.
Language
Without translation, I would be limited to the borders of my own country. The translator is my most important ally.
— Italo Calvino
My typewriter is multilingual,
its keysmysteriously calibrating
my bipolar, forked tongue.
Black-red silk ribbon spools, unwinds
as the carriage moves right to left.
In cursive hand, I write from left to right.
My tongue was born promiscuous —
speaking in many languages.
My heart spoke another, my head
yet another — the translation, seamless.
*
Auricles, ventricles pump blood —
corpuscle-like alphabets, phrases, syntax
cross-fertilize my text, breathing life.
Texture enriched — music, cadence
spatially enhanced — osmotic,
polyglottal — a polygamy of grammar.
Letterforms dance, ligatures pirouette —
ascenders, descenders — pitch perfect.
Imagination isn’t caged in speech —
speech cannot be caged in language.
Burning Ghats, Varanasi
Over-heated flaming pyres of the burning dead
partially shield my sight of river Ganges —
its fast muddy currents eddying the floating lamps,
bathing bodies,
remains of corpses, flesh-bone ash.
At Manikarnika Ghat, a mixture of sanctity and stench
rises from silted sands and wooden armatures —
fire-aided decomposition of human flesh —
the offerings swiftly lapped up by roaming animals.
An emaciated sadhu with wild-knotted dreadlocks,
perched precariously on a bamboo frame
on the edge of the river,
dreams of alms that might come his way,
even at this late hour.
Presiding priests, feed ritual ghee
to the burning wood-and-dead —
its flames forming huge flares,
fragmented waves of golden-amber spark,
electrifying helical fire-flurries —
a living, crematorium drama.
A young boy scratches his newly-shaven head,
a pot-bellied man immerses himself in the river,
stray dogs bark, cows groan, loudspeakers bray.
Gandhi’s posters ghat-side walls preach peace, non-violence.
Amid so much noise,
the business of death being transacted
carries on, without any emotion or fuss.
Saffron-robed men on ghat-steps
sit in yoga postures, praying —
a silent quest —
what does prayer amid all this din and commerce
get you anyway?
Medley of bells, conch, chant, fire, water, boat, people
ceases to be a cacophony after a few hours —
variant decibels melding into a drone, a trance —
where the only balance that exists,
is in our minds.
Bare-headed, bare-bodied young men,
draped in swathes of pure cotton,
foreheads smeared in sandalwood and vermillion
carrying ash-filled earthen pots —
walk past me towards the river-edge,
detached —
eldest sons performing last rites for their dead.
White-clad teachers squatting cross-legged on the ghat
under large circular cane-parasols
impart teachings from the Upanishads and Vedas
to young priests-in-the-making.
Illuminated cane-lanterns
hang on long bamboo poles curving skywards —
homage to the memory of martyrs —
guiding light for heavenly apsaras
descending during the Kartik month to bathe in Kashi —
as oil-soaked wicks flickering on beds of rose petal, sail
catching the waves’ moods.
In the super-heated pyre, I hear another ritual pot break,
another skull crack, another soul take flight.
I see some shore-temples slow-sink
into the swallowing river —
effects of unpredictable tides and climate change
taking with them, both the mortal and the immortal —
Holocene’s carbon-footprint — its death text, unceasing.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust —
water to heavy water, life to after-life.
Hope: Light Leaks
Darkness cannot drive out darkness. Only light can do that.
— Martin Luther King, Jr.
Late at night, light leaks — spilling
beyond the door’s rectangle edge —
a cleaving schism, its shape —
a partial crucifix, a new resurrection.
Light’s plane waxes, wanes —
viral load expands, contracts.
Photons spill, conduction sparks —
light slow removes cataract’s veil.
In this blackness, lives matter.
