We don't talk much about you anymore

We don't talk much about you anymore,
except on those rare occasions when conversations were
related to you in some way,
like about your eldest sister who has gone blind 
or about scooters and helmets,
or hypertension.

And they don't talk much about you anymore either;
your siblings, on their merry visits during Eid
as they sit around the coffee table
making petty coffee table conversations
about every little inconsequential thing
their little minds could think of.

When they're around, I'd always make sure the TV was on 
so that all chatter remains inconsequential,
but sometimes there are awkward silences in between
and then I'd wish you were here to help fill in those gaps
with your unfailing way of making
conversations. 

We don't talk much about you anymore, it's true,
Not in conversations over lunch, nor dinnertime, or at occasional get-togethers;
But there is a small part of you in my mind that is still
breathing, and laughing, and talking 
and snoring. And perhaps mom, and sis, and bro and even your little nieces who
once knew you, 
keep a small part of you too.


---- circa 2008

pest

I saw him
from the corner of my eye,
flitting this way
and that way,
scampering on its tiny
disgusting feet.
My arm reached out
quickly
for the nearest thing
(last Saturday's Classified)
and then
in one decisive
SWAT
... he died.


-------- circa December 2006.

The Truth of the Matter

I am here,
and You are there,
and this great chasm between us
is all that exists
in this reality.

That is the truth of the matter,
the very real actuality --
just two fools looking
everywhere else but
at each other.

For a little while I tried
to shout and scream at you --
"Look here!" -- I wanted to say.
But when I opened my mouth, my vocal chords
constrict
and nothing,
nothing,
comes out
but just hot, stale, air.

So maybe you did turn
and glanced my way
but the glare of the sun
blinded my sight and I didn't notice
those precious,
precious seconds.
And maybe you did
call back from there across
the void
but I was lost in the chase
of my own thoughts.
Am lost.

And I thought --
I am here,
and You are there,
and this great chasm between us
is the reality.

---- circa 20th April 2008

The Cupboard

Opening these old plywood doors
is like stepping --
into a time machine -- and stepping
into a past when you were still around;
everyday, shuttling from home to work, and home again,
on your beloved green Vespa;
and Saturday nights, in front of the TV,
in one of your old sarongs, watching
British Bulldog and Undertaker beat the crap
out of each other.

Now, congealed dust coat the surface of your things
(which have hardly been touched eversince you left)
and the saturated reek of mothballs and stale minyak attar
stubbornly fill this confined space,
making my nose twitch and my eyes
water.

Mom says, I should take
some of your clothes and use them,
but how could I --
Wear shirts, tinged with yellow from long un-use, and pants,
at least two sizes too small?
These dated habiliments -- and many others -- I can only
fold away
and put away into boxes,
for storage in a corner of the room, where they can
be conveniently Forgotten.

So heavy, these hands, as I run them over
your old socks -- their elastic long gone -- and your
precious few baju kurungs;
But heavier still is the heart.
Each garment that I touch
invokes a slice of memory -- Memory after memory,
re-lived, and then
packed and stacked on top of each other.
No wonder, that it took some years before
someone went around to do this. . .

Make way! Make way for those still living!
Someone else's things will be placed here tomorrow --
here, behind these old plywood doors --
because Life goes on, and all that jazz.

-- circa Oct. 2006

Noise

There was a man who mumbles.
I didn't understand his words -- His words like someone
trying to speak underwater.
Shuffling along in his old, beat-up sandals,
piss-stained khakis and jolly, red polo-shirt
-- embellished with yesterday's dessert,
reeking of stale beer and ciggarettes ---
greasy hair streaked with grey,
wrinkles deepened by coarse dirt,
sagging shoulders and lost, shifty eyes --
Like some mindless child left behind by mistake.

Meaninglessly
muttering, muttering and muttering --
And sometimes at you, he would point, the way you'd point
at a passing butterfly or at unlaced laces.
But people think it best to ignore him,
ignore him, ignore him --
this overgrown stray of the coffeeshop.
Ignore the fact that he was Someone once.
Someone's brother? -- Father? -- Husband?

From time to time, he would stare
at the bright colors of the hanging TV
and exclaim excitedly in gibberish before continuing
with his mad tawaf around the tables --
and all the while --
muttering, muttering and muttering
secrets from his secret world --
And the rest is just
Noise.

----- circa April 15, 2006

On a turquoise cloud

How nice to be floating
up there, somewhere --
unsullied by the stain of petty desires,
or the mud and grime of earthly constructs --
Bobbing along to the soundtrack of lyres,
Dido-esque muzak, or perhaps something inbetween.
Unburdened by existentialist ideas,
or the philosophies of Socrates, Plato, Confucius,
Ghandhi, Teresa, Lennon, Plath, Keats --
Just a bunch of dead people,
and those not dead are tiny moving black specks below.

How nice to be breathing
thin, but clean, air --
no noxious fumes to char the lungs
and choke your bronchioles --
Bobbing along to the melody, sweetly sung,
of tranquil skies, and lazy ships upon sun-drenched seas --
Up there, somewhere...
on a turquoise cloud.

---- circa 5th August 2005

By the side of the road

A pair of lovers by the side of the road –
Contorted faces shooting accusatory looks,
Distorted voices – hoarse and cracked –
And the ground beneath, seemingly shook.

The Hondas, the Mercs, and the cabs that zoomed past
Provided the floodlights for their little show.
The Inquisitive eyes of strangers behind plexiglass windows,
Were the fleeting audience – spectators on the go.

A careless word dropped along the way,
An inflammatory remark thrown into the winds,
A pointing finger casting a spell of hate,
Like starting a wild bushfire with a burning splint.

I turned to flee from the flames and crossed
And heard next – the screaming of tires –
A loud bang – and then a blankness – a stillness –
And I was staring up, at the black skies –

At the spinning streetlights, and glaring headlights.
I wondered, "Will they see it before it's all too late? –
This pair of lovers by the side of the road –
That anger only begets anger begets rage begets hate?"


---- 22 July 2005

In waves this engulfing darkness hits

In waves this engulfing darkness hits
the fragile consciousness
and the heart starts
flailing madly against the rushing tide.
Nothing telling breaks
the impassive façade
except the glistening eyes
and a blinking back
of that single tear of anguish (or fear?).

The rain had forewarned this
deluge, but the Sun had turned his face away –
For who wants to be the herald
of such dire circumstance?
And now the looming gloom that threatens
to settle across the horizons,
encroaches upon sight and foresight –
Like awaking from a lush dream and plunging straight
into the blackest of seas.

---- circa 20th October 2005

The more I stumble after Time

The more I stumble after Time,
The faster it scampers away from me --
Like an elusive imp that teases,
And drains all my mortal energy.

Sliding this way and that way,
Slipping into corners and out --
Streaking between my lumbering fingers
During protracted moments of doubt.

It sneaks up from behind
With much stealth, cunning, and sly --
And then with a bang and a jolt,
A phase of a life has passed you by...

--- circa 18th Oct 2005

Lament

The Prospect of losing a piece of
your Heart is realizing the world is caving in
With all of you underneath and
Everything else –– on top and above –– tumbling.

Feel the ground heave and shake
With the urgency of your weeping –– And the rain
In sheets should pour –– nay, Tear! –– down
The Heavens and bludgeon away the pain.

But forsooth! –– The earth silently revolves
And the storm no more potent than yester’s shower ––
There are no thunderclaps nor lightning ––
Nor the night is much blacker.

So who hears the screaming of your little Heart
Being wrenched –– bit by microscopic bit –– apart?


---- 11th May, 2005.