To own a home

To own a home is to ingest it

and hope the concrete doesn’t

reverse track. It is to pray

the apartment breaks

down into paste in the entrails —

a process that takes as long

as final possession. It is to serve

the carpet area with a side of dadi’s

pickle (which the broker enjoys)

while the builder consumes seventy per cent

in cash, deep fried, and the rest

via bank transfer. (No salad.)

It is to feel lime-washed walls

slide down the throat with deceptive

sweetness and swirl in the abdomen

along with years of EMIs.

It is to brace for the acidity

of loan interests, corrosion of the inner

lining, lacerations and leakage.

It is to tackle complaints from neighbours,

which involves too much caffeine.

It is to watch the ceiling

peel, which is nobody’s concern

but yours. It is to devour meals

on the sly like a sleep-eater.

It is to decorate each room with care

and diabetic sugar, hoping everything

dissolves easily into bile. It is to feel

as if you have swallowed a rock,

though others are quick

to assure you this is normal

for property ownership and crucial

for a comfortable life.

Coastal road

The coastal road curves above the diamonds

of the Arabian Sea like an armful of edelweiss.

We drive towards its hologram

of urbanity, watching it expand like a promise,

noting how it links dreams to the soul.

My father marvels at the speed

of progress in the evening light

in which even the blue

tarp of need is made picturesque

by the sun’s wet kiss. As we cruise

onto its other limb, metal and cement

grow familiar under a fuchsia

sky. My father ruminates on the

vow fulfilled in his lifetime, and

the imbalance from which came this

moment of awe. To one end, it seems,

are our lives: a melding of gold

and survival, while the other holds

hope. Between them lies

this longing, these aspirations

that soar like comets. Sitting beside

my father, watching him accept

his mortality, I hold on and focus,

like him, on the direction of love.

A Byculla poet

After hearing him ask her

at a literature festival

whether there exists another that draws

Chinchpokli into poetics (because such

a thing is an absurdity), I, a Byculla poet

(of which I may be one of two, the second being

a name on a mural), sit in a cab

and fly – since it is a good day —

past buildings, two of which have a coconut

tree standing awkwardly between them

like I would have stood with the luminaries

had I courage to tell them I use the name

of that very neighbourhood as an endearment

to elicit my parents’ smiles. Instead,

as their conversation ends, I choose to shuffle

away with downcast eyes

and fly under a moon

gilded by the pair, thinking of how

to mark my home too

within the luminescence of poetry.

Corporate job

Over rows of desks

joined in reverence of a capitalist

goal, under a roof

of glass, natural light spills

like a mistake. Here time is full

of insects buzzing with seconds,

and rays swerving like swords,

attempting to slice heads

while I, in the office chair, work

against its progress, glaring

at the computer’s slow rise

from outdated sleep.

**Bhaji wali **

She announces her arrival with a call

that travels from her lips to windows

a generous radius away, her vowels

growing wild, expanding

with an elasticity that mesmerises,

the eeeh and aaah roaming like wind

and petering to the slow breath

of a summer breeze, leaving you

to mourn the energy that

dissolved to naught.

Encore.

**War poem **

Here there

is no blood —

tainted phrase releasing

like a bullet. No artillery —

laden words joining arms, forming

battalions. No rage. No tears. Not

much of anything. Only this pillow —

soft resignation to provide

a gentle, pointless end.

Excerpted with permission from Absurd Theatre, Suchita Parikh-Mundul, Paperwall Publishing.

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