My temples throb Like the devil has set up shop In their wefts of flesh and bone There he threshes His wheat and corn Brimstoned and fire shorn Screaming out his brutal song I’m enmeshed Tied inside my throbbing head Forced to see, ingest and feel The devilry Making me curse Making me keen In time to the pounding drum And the terrifying never-ending hum Of the devil’s threshing machine
I try to think Break out of the infernal links That tie me down inside my head My raging, aching, splitting head But the devil sings His strangely hypnotizing song And I stop Trying to slip Into my veins Away, away from the devil’s shop From that wretched, that exhausting pain And I stay The convulsions hold me in their sway Aaaa-gonizing me Beating, pulverizing me Crescendoing with my memories And I sit with my pounding head As the throb in my temples counts the dead.
My book SHIMMERING SCRAPS OF POETRY AND MADNESS is a collection of poems and essays, rumblings of the heart about the joys, the truths, the pain, the controversies, the funniness and the wonder that criss cross all our lives in one way or another.
The book is divided into five sections: Joy, Foot-in-the-mouth, Truth, Hope and Serenity. The Truth and Foot-in-the-Mouth categories are especially brazen and raw. As with most such uninhibited writing, the objective is to assail the sensibilities and even if just for a while, to look the truth right in its jaundiced eye. The other three sections are largely whimsical and uplifting very much like walking through a zen corridor, which I’m hoping, will also soften the sensory assault of the former two segments.
The Jallianwala Bagh massacre, also known as the Amritsar massacre, took place on 13 April 1919. A large peaceful crowd had gathered at the Jallianwala Bagh in Amritsar, Punjab, to protest against the Rowlatt Act and arrest of pro-independence activists. In response to the public gathering, the temporary Brigadier general, R. E. H. Dyer, surrounded the protesters with his troops. The Jallianwala Bagh could only be exited on one side, as its other three sides were enclosed by buildings. After blocking the exit, he ordered them to shoot at the crowd, continuing to fire until their ammunition was exhausted. Estimates of those killed vary between 379 and 1500+ people.
I’m wearing my yellow chunri today I look at my reflection in the mirror And I see a girl in front of me Her face is shining, her smile wide I look into her eyes and laugh I’m the happy lass today. That’s me! It was going to be a lovely week Of friends and melas and cream sodas Baljeet and I were going to fly Up, up into the sky On rose-festooned jhoolas*
I waited at the bagh* with Bhai-jan* His friend was organizing something They were busy but I was busier still Absorbing everything From the smells in the air to the sights and sounds I bought a set of bangles Red, gold and brown For myself and some for Baljeet Emerald green with silver trim They would play on our wrists, tinkling
Mohammad Bashir bought me some moongphalli* He was Bhai-jan’s friend Organizing something at the bagh The sugary pinkness melted in my mouth I got kissed by a little breeze blowing in from the south I turned the other cheek Laughingly and waited for Baljeet For kulfa falooda* and gajar ka halwa* For nimboo mirch wali garam, garam challi* My heart soared at the thought I looked at the kites gliding above I closed my eyes imagining I was One of those magical things Floating, flitting on currents of air I felt the breeze play with my hair
Baljeet didn’t come that day Bhai Jan forever went away In front of me, while in my arms Bleeding, gasping for air There were screams and sobs There were gun shots I’d lost my voice; but inside me Something broke piece by piece There was no comforting, caressing breeze To sweep the stabbing bits away
Silently I looked around My bangles were broken, there was no sound From there either There was a wildness of colour on the ground The red of blood spilling fountain-like The wet brown earth where life And breath congealed in the grass There in the April sun’s golden glare I saw fallen angels everywhere At the Jhallianwala bagh.
* Chunri: fabric pattern with little white specks on colourful backgrounds
* Jhoola: Swing in Urdu
* Bagh: Park in Urdu
* Bhai Jan: affectionate term for Brother in Urdu
* Buria ke baal: Literally meaning “old woman’s hair”. Colloquialism used for cotton candy/ candy floss in Urdu.
* Kulfa falooda: A rich summer dessert very much like ice cream.
* Mongphalli: Peanuts in Urdu
* Gajar ka halwa: A traditional sweet made from carrots
* Nimboo mirch wali garam, garam challi: salt and chilli powder doused hot roasted corn on the cob
We were talking About this and that The conversation meandering Sometimes off the beaten track Into more private realms Reticent spaces holding Secret reflections, introspection Ruminations that had rarely seen The light of day Hesitating, faltering, we walked along That path hewn on the cusp of right and wrong Where perplexing thoughts lay vulnerable, bare And then we heard the call to prayer
She rose with an alacrity borne of custom With velvety smooth liquid motions Like a babbling stream that has No more reason to be but because It can flow gliding in its bed of silt and stone She floated through the ritual Sure, secure in the discerning eyes Of her faithful world. On the outside She had done the needful, the right thing She came back to our conversation Her face shining with virtue, beneficence
But now the doors were closed To the questions that had peeked through The heavy, opaque veils of tradition and goodness Back they had sunk into the clenched depths From which they had inadvertently crept She looked at me with guarded eyes Lest I scratch that surface again Lest she forget what keeps her true and safe
I smiled and she smiled back at me “Have another cup of tea” She said bringing the conversation Back to the glittering streets Of the daily treads of teeming feet And I followed, leaving the track Lit up by mysterious stars and the soul-searching gleam Of the moon that now shone on our backs.
It is with great excitement and pleasure that I introduce my second book for the grownups – my book of poetry and essays titled SHIMMERING SCRAPS OF POETRY AND MADNESS. The book will be available across bookstores in Pakistan and Sri Lanka at the end of December 2022. Friends in SL can currently order it from the Jam Fruit Tree bookstore on Galle Road via call/WhatsApp to 072-7268078.
ABOUT THE BOOK:
This is a collection of poems and essays, humble opinions, rumblings of the heart about the joys, the truths, the pain, the controversies, the funniness and the wonder that criss cross all our lives in one way or another. I have compiled them here because too many times, we are witnesses to profound beauty, love, dreams, desolation, prejudice and injustice and yet, we forget.
The contents of these pages range from the sublime to the ridiculous; from soaring on the wings of ecstacy to struggling with overwhelming despair; from the capricious joys of matrimony to the dubious delights of singledom; from the profound ecstasy in a mug of steaming latte to the ardent disappointment in a less than perfectly brewed cup of tea; from the comedic to the somber and from the customary to the controversial, this collection of poems and features encompasses them all.
Scraps of Poetry and Madness is a phrase borrowed from that literary Wonder Woman, Virginia Woolfe. For in this collection too, there is a stream of raw and strident, passive and ruminative, joyous and grief-bound, mad and glad thoughts that run like a melody through the entirety of its spine; and like a sore-throated bulbul (who also has some good-voice days) I have sung them all for my readers.
She carried a little bouquet Of golden-hearted nargis* Her face flushed, her eyes bright She was going to make a gift of them To someone special. The bus stop was empty Save the woman with the flowers And me. I had my phone in my hand She sat on the bench waiting Clutching her bouquet I stood nearby, holding my phone Watching her secretly Trying not to spook her But she was mesmerizing In the tender enchantment That surrounded her
The bus was late She sat there almost motionlessly, quietly But the thrum of her joyful energy Was taken up by the gay bouquet As it danced gently in the breeze She wore yellow shalwar kameez* With little white flowers Or were they stars? They were tiny, almost imperceptible So small I was sure even she wouldn’t know But they shimmered in her gaiety She smiled as she adjusted the stems The flowers bobbed back happily She sat there like a painting Full of joy and anticipation
The bus rolled in Carrying its load of passengers I lingered a while to see The recipient of this picture of love That waited brightly on the seat Together we watched people alight People go left and right Until the last passenger stepped down I climbed on, slowly, hesitantly I sat down near a window and looked out The bouquet now lay inertly on the bench Its sunny heart wrenched Where it had been clenched In the ardent embrace of a pair of hands Drenching it in the liquid warmth of love
They were stars, not flowers On her kameez, five-pronged tridents Piercing, lancing, shattering The perfection of beautiful things Hidden, Unbeknownst to her The fault, I was sure, lay in the stars.
* Nargis: Daffodil
* Shalwar kameez: the long shirt and trousers worn by women in Pakistan and India
The rain is falling in sheets upon sheets Jumping into puddles, skipping over feet Performing a symphony as it flows Reaching a crescendo down the street Where whirlwind eddies and the sidewalk meet
The koi in the pond in the building know Something is up, they flicker and jump Out of the water again and again But the ripples on the surface aren’t enough To join in the play of the skies above
They don’t feel the glorious downpour Charge into their silent world thrumming They swim up and down around and around Waiting, waiting expecting something The sensory pleasure of nature dancing
But the koi will float in agitated oblivion To the playful frolic of the monsoon sky As it cavorts with all of earth’s creatures But not with the pond and not with the koi Our faithful tributes to a world gone awry.
I feel the pull I feel the glimmer It surrounds me, it’s all around me I freeze as it coaxes me Out of the grip of my sanity I stop struggling And let it pull me in I drown Down, down In the tsunami gushing Inside my mind But only for a breath.
I resurface then In my other world My secret one Where I have no anxiety Where I don’t want to run And hide I’m beside A swing in the garden And a rocking chair. I smile. They both hold the comfort And the softness of old friends They rest there quietly.
I sit in the swing I push with my feet And peek through the leaves At the golden-red sky I can’t see them But I can hear the birds I think it is dusk A velvety glow wraps my world Golden paisleys and whorls Dance around my feet As I sway gently in my seat Dappled sunlight cloaks My shoulders like angels wings As I weave to and fro on the swing
I breathe out, my muscles untense I’m far away from cause and consequence No memories, no sorrows No yesterdays, no tomorrows It is Now and Now is everything I lean back In the swing She holds me softly In her cushioning I close my eyes. I hear something Someone is calling me Voices from far away But my lids are so heavy I can’t keep awake In the tranquil buzz Of the honey bees And the gentle murmur Of the almond trees Like wraiths the voices fade away
I’m finally home, unbound, pain-free I lay my head back and sleep.
She’s not here anymore. She’s gone Adrift in the tangle of her dreams.
I have lost the rituals Of faith. But my devotion has Become stronger. I no longer Am afraid or confused by questions that Whirl around in my head Never to be brought into existence Their very substance damning Pounding, hammering a path to (h)elsewhere I now wear a cloak around My shoulders. It holds a super power A texture all its own. When I’m alone It reminds me of who I am. It fosters my introspection It champions who I want to be And then I feel No other burden of pretense Or suspense No fear of consequence For being so much more And ritualizing less I have no dire need to find my Hallowed steed to gallop on with Me holding on, bound for paradise. This life, this blessed life is mine To treat with such passion Such tenderness, that earth Itself becomes the Eden I seek. My paradise is under my own feet.
Oh look at that beautiful dragonfly It’s turning somersaults It’s peacock coloured gossamer wings Perfect; without fault! But you didn’t catch the fleeting glimpse It bestowed upon this scene You were on your phone lost in Digital worlds upon your screen
Did you see that butterfly Just sit upon my arm Brown and orange-yellow wings It was full of golden charm! You missed its quickening beauty As it said hello and went You were caught in your own loop Eyes down, heart still, head bent
I had to hold my breath there That scene was so sublime The grand eagle swooping down And then soaring back up high! Where, where? you ask me now As you look at an empty sky You were fretting, agitating As nature sprang her wondrous surprise
Glittering dragonflies, murmurations Eagles in majestic flight A shower of blossoms, a ladybird loveliness Nature exulting in life Magical, mystical, shimmering marvels Surround us at all times Some of us get to revel in their beauty Some stay trapped by Sentinel Time
Mahvash Mohtadullah - The Roaming Desi 