Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 1, Number 1. May 2018. ISSN: 2581-7094
AshokaVatika
--- Usha Kishore
I do not want his golden palaces,
his gemstone seas. I do not want
to be trapped in this Ashokavatika,
sorrow-less garden, filled with ashoka trees;
its emerald foliage, singing in the
golden sun;
its rubied flowers, with the
fragrance of heaven.
Ashoka
bowers, resonant with song birds;
colourful visions of a demon king,
to seduce me into wilful submission.
Passing monsoons dream in lightning
rain
and I am part of this ashoka now, another
tree deity, carved into its soul,
guarded by
demon women, who laugh in storming
thunder;
their fangèd mouths dripping with
scorn, as
I melt in sorrow for my love across
the seas,
who gathers monkey warriors for an epic
battle.
Ravana’s lust has imprisoned me
in his golden kingdom; in this dark
garden of sorrow-less trees. I am a curse,
never to be redeemed. Even the redolent air
lies in its breath; the green grass
hiding
serpents beneath. I sit under this grand tree,
my dreams wandering with the
clouds.
I hear the waves sighing for the
moon at night.
All around me are enchanted trees;
starry gems
dance in their branches; garnet,
amethyst and citrine
turning into peacocks and birds of
paradise.
Only the ashoka is real; its flowers fade
on my hair; their fragrance
perfuming my thoughts.
Defining Multiculturalism
--- Usha Kishore
Vibrant hues mingle with pastel
shades,
the fundamental difference is in the
skin,
then the accent, the tone and the
attitude.
Committees congregate to recommend
a mosaic of cultures, ethnic
minorites
demand rights, advocates defend
status quo.
The judgement is delivered in words,
unspoken, loudly articulating
the expressions of difference.
Paying
petty lip service to inclusion
defines
the essence of multiculturalism.
Multiculturalism is a rank outsider
knocking the golden gates of Western
capitals, hanging around recumbent
postcolonial pastures, an immigrant
from the other side of the world.
Few see it with a discerning eye.
Corner Shop-Lady
--- Usha Kishore
My corner shop-lady at No 123,
Woodlands Road,
wears her chikankari salwar-kameez in style.
Her tie and dye stole flutters
across continents,
cultures and languages. Her hennaed hair
is sprinkled with Himalayan snow,
her blue-black
eyes lined in monsoon dreams.
Child of immigrants, she speaks
fluent Estuary,
dyed in occasional notes of
Hindustani, that tinkles,
like the gold bangles around her
wrists -
Mi eldest, ‘e drives a bus in Southall, like mi husban’
does. Mi youngest, ’e
is cleva, that one! ’e is doin’
a P – H-Dee in astrophysics at Cambridge. Mi middle
one, ’e don’t know where ’e is comin’ or goin’…
She tells me the story of her life,
as she serves
her regulars. Nazneen to me, she is Naz to them.
As she disappears into the anteroom,
like
jack-in-the box, her three sons beam
down at me
from the wall like Brahma, Vishnu
and Shiva.
Are you married to that doctor bloke, yo’r livin’ wif?
she frowns; the fragrance of ghee,
wafting from her
homemade sweets, drowns me in
nostalgia.
She shrugs her shoulder in
assured sanctimony.
If you ain’ tied the knot yet, I suggest you be’er do the
deed.
Don’ mine me sayin’ so, but youngsters like yoself,
hav’ gon’ very
angrez, these days! You ain’ got no roots!
Don’ you go roun’ avin’ najayaz bachche…
She spits out the last few words in
the Urdu of Old Delhi,
where her roots hang from an old
banyan tree.
Her words run like a ghazal, in frantic fusion symphony
of a crooning Pankaj Udhas and an
upbeat Kulashekar.
Her nonchalant air, overpowering
like attar, awakens
my Indian sensibilities. She is a stock character,
from the novels I teach at
school. She is a lilting verse
that I will carry away, from my
lingering estuary days
that meander languorously through
Kentish towns.
Mango Memory
--- Usha Kishore
Remembering the golden mango
hedgehogs,
dripping with tangy nectar and
sunlight spice.
Remembering the never ending
bickering
among siblings for the succulent
seed;
the juice of many summers trickling
down
the throat, a sharp sweetness that
satiates
the soul. Remembering grandfather’s skill
in the quick coring of the fruit,
the sting of a
smack on a thieving hand that
refused to wait.
The fragrance of bird-beaked mango
pierces
my heart, its piquant zest nestling
among
the green leaves of time. I slice and slice
my memory for that ritual of
childhood;
a translation of fruit and its
flavoured dreams.