Vanity is such a hindrance
stopping me from breathing easy.
Like a vine entwining my being
feeding on my energy,
it thrives on applause,
puts out tendrils and blooms.
It sickens at the slightest chill
infecting my cells with unease.
I pray for humility.
not mock humility,
not mere pretension,
but a connection, a flowing
from the Self - the sum
of what we receive
from the earth, from our kin
from the visible and the invisible.
Arunima CHOUDHURY
 |
| Salvador Dali (1937) |
I am a watcher. I may be mistaken as the watchman of this of valley of sand and rocks. But as I said I am only a watcher . I observe and draw my conclusions.
Do you see the people in the distance, dancing, gesticulating, playing rope? Micah sitting on the ground expelling the miasma of his nightmares, Anish prancing around on his make believe horse? They live in that house below the hill . They come to their playground and revel in their limited freedom. They shout, sing, shed their selves and for a while become whoever else they would rather be. They long to be run away, be completely free and paradoxically are terrified of freedom.
They point at me and whisper amongst themselves. Look at him . He's watching us. It's because of him we can't escape. He reports all those who try to run away . Have you seen the heap of bones behind the hills? They are the remains of those who tried to escape.
They forget that they have made of me what they want me to be, a watchman against their desire to escape and their fear of freedom.
And even if they did step out into this endless desert , where would they go? They have long since lost any sense of direction. They abandoned their compass when they came here. Like those poor people who tried to get away , they would go round and round and eventually exhausted crumple into a heap of bones, bleached white by the sand and the desert wind.
So is there no way out? Are all those who have wandered to this no man's land condemned to be here for eternity. I know of some who have left leaving no trace behind them. They know it too in the deepest, darkest, recess of their minds. But they are terrified. It is too hard. The way is haunted by creatures of their worst nightmares.
There are some who have done it though, gone down the path , opened the door and taken a leap of faith into the other land; that land which is so close that only a hairline crack separates it from theirs. And yet it seems to them so terribly far, such an impossible journey to undertake.
Arunima Choudhury
There was this door which loved playing pranks. It loved surprising people, catching them off guard, making them wonder where they were and what to do next. It moved around, appeared, disappeared, camouflaged itself into a church entrance , a pub door, a forbidding prison gate.
So John who went regularly to the neighbourhood bar around the corner with a swinging glass door, to down umpteen pints of beer, found himself one day in front of an imposing, carved wooden church doors , slightly ajar, as if inviting him to step in. He shook his head to clear it, blamed it on one too many pints and walked around the block to find himself this time in front of a large wrought iron gate with a signboard proclaiming zoo in fancy lettering. He looked incredulously at the signboard, pinched himself hard to see if he was awake, then decided to rush back home and sleep throughout the day , terribly scared that he would not be able to find the door to his house.
It saw a little girl going to her grandma’s house with a small white elephant on a leash. In a flash it positioned itself in front of granny’s house and sported a sign in bold white letters which read “Strictly No Elephants.”
Mina looked up, saw the sign and stopped on the door step. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t leave Hati behind. He accompanied her wherever she went. And she very much wanted to visit her dear granny who she knew would have never put up such a sign.She looked and looked but the door was exactly like the one in front of her granny’s building and the houses one either side were also exactly the same. It must be someone from the building she thought, someone who’s scared of elephants.
She was in a dilemma. She wanted to see her granny but she did not want to disobey the notice either. So after a while she told Hati, “Let’s pretend you are a dog.” Please, please don’t give me away. Remember to bark and not trumpet when someone pats you on the head.
Arunima Choudhury
I miss
those I have left behind,
n’ those who have left me behind.
Loss lurks around
the skylight of my being,
shadowing my awakening.
Childhood
1. Languid summer afternoons
lying wrapped in ma’s cotton sari,
her scent a gentle presence.
2. In the smaller room,
sun on a wooden clothes rack,
Ma’s saris, underskirts and blouses.
3. My widowed grandma
in white sari, emblem of widowhood
with shrivelled onion breasts.
Adolescence
* The Loo is a strong, dusty, gusty, hot and dry summer wind from the west which blows over the Indo- Gangetic region of North India and Pakistan.
School
In the hall a glass cupboard
of ceramic geishas in
pretty, flower kimonos,
serene gaze in oval face.
The Principal’s’ collection.
A lonely child stops to look,
her mistrust of the dragon
allayed by their beauty.
Memory
Summer afternoons,
beige curtains drawn, shadowed room,
having tea with pa.
Absence
The clothes line on the balcony
without the morning’s washing of
worn under-shirts, sarongs, towels,
flapping in the sea breeze.
An infinitesimal pattern of life
swept clean by death.
Vanity is such a hindrance stopping me from breathing easy. Like a vine entwining my being feeding on my energy, it thrives on applaus...
