Poems by Pankhuri Sinha

Poems by Pankhuri Sinha
The great stalemate
The great stalemate
Within that situation
That I needed to tell them about
The stalemate they just could not see
Or could not fathom
Or simply did not accept
Despite its visibility
Or said
It wasn’t visible enough
Was a stalemate made up of strange suspicions
And actions emanating from there
Or elsewhere
Having suspected
That she was going to leave him
Was going to eventually leave
Why would a girl do that?
Or how could a girl do that?
And if he had a time for her leaving in mind
For girls ran out of time
Something, even she forgot
Living in that stalemate
Living the suspect’s life
Being quizzed on daily things
Being quizzed on basic things
As though, to find out
Where it all was going
You see
Living a life
Where all doings
Seemed to be doings inside the props of a set
That one day
Had to be taken down
Where all living
Was living on a stage
Within the script of it
Being written
Very funnily
For having said
That his baby
Would be very fat
Fat indeed
Fat and healthy
He receded into total distance
Not just distance
But withdrawal
Into a coldness of not doing anything
After making a mockery of doing anything
Anything physical
That had to do with love
Or lovemaking
At every single moment
Where it could have been possible.
That this was the result
Of a one time denial
Was a reaction
Out of proportion
For comprehension.
There was
Had to be
Another conspiracy
Behind it.
And that I had to somehow break
The perpetuating stalemate
With all the praises
Coming just for him
Was an inhuman task.
From under the
pine tree
From under the pine tree
From under the fur tree
She was going to say
The fig tree
She was going to say
But it quite simply was a pine tree
A blue pine, blue spruce
A pine and a fig and a fur tree
A Christmas tree
With branches
Hung low
Touching the ground
From underneath that hollow
Round, and red
And firm and perfectly fine
From a stranger’s backyard
Almost looking into his window
The one in the basement
The one above
Imagining almost
If the man who had walked in
The other day
While she was photographing
With the coolness
And distance of a photographer
Somewhat feigned
She had photographed things like that
In the past
Mountains, vineyards
Laden with grapes
Stood among them
One with the trees, fruits, flowers and leaves
Without that pang of hunger
But now
She eyed the fruits
But true
She wanted the pictures
And eyed the fruits
You could still be hungry
And an artist
That was the case
More often than not
You could still believe in taking road side pictures
With a cell phone
And saying hello
To strangers
With a belief greater than religion
But now picking his apples
Strictly from the ground
There were some in the tree
And thank god
For the news report
About support for the woman
Whose apples were stolen from the tree
It made picking easier
But now she imagined
If the owner
Was Tunisian
The country
Where the fruit revolution had begun
With an actual fruit seller’s protest
Or Algerian, or Libyan, or Morrocan
Or from some place there
He was an Arab African
Probably, Tunisian
To have so abandoned
The apples
248 Pankhuri Sinha
She too
Had done so
In the past
Some had frozen
And been spoiled by the snow
Such fine apples
They felt in her hands
An entire Arab spring had passed
And brought her no rights.
And perhaps
Had brought no rights to many others.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s