The Highwayman (Muscat, 1999)

 

We had just moved into Muscat from Kolkata. What impressed me most were the empty roads and the big cars. Driving was a pleasure and we often used to go for a trip down Sultan Qaboos Steet, viz the Highway. A poem written in ballad style to commemorate those early simple pleasures.

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We're out upon the highway, folks. and it's a full moon night. 

A couple of pegs inside us, feeling pleasant but not tight.

The speedometer's creeping up, the engine seems alive,

The ROP-s can take a walk, let me enjoy my drive.

We feel like taking off somewhere - the beach at Al Bustan?

Or should we gun for Wahiba and stay there if we can?

The talk goes to Salalah trips, but that seems much too deep.

Then someone says: "Aw what the hell - at least let's go to Seeb!"

We take off down the highway road and pass Wattyah fast,

And Qurum comes up in a blink, Al Khwair too does not last.

Bowshar and Ghala both are gone before ten words are said,

The car is on the outer lane and Seeb one stretch ahead.

This is one stratch all drivers love, when speed turns 120,

The 3-lane track goes on and on, the steering's floating free,

O'ertaking's such a lazy loop, the other cars so staid - 

When something zips out suddenly, a Mustang painted red!

Must be some madcap local kid, the father's youngest son,

Trained on his papa's racing camels and spoilt since he was one.

Our blood boils for a nanosecond - good drivers we, no less.

If only we had similar cars, we would have shown him, yes!

The Seeb round-about is here - we think with heads a-bowed,

Should we go back the way we came, or take the service road?

The moon decides the route for us - the main roads to be shunned,

Romance is in the air tonight, although air-conditioned.

The service road's a winding stretch, all dark with headlights low,

It serves our purpose fairly well, though driving's fairly slow.

But all good things come to an end, and coming up for air,

We find our service road has served - we're almost at Al Khwair.

"Oh do we have to go back now?", we jointly groan aloud.

"The night is pretty young as yet, McDonald has a crowd.

"Why don't we join the merry throng and flit from shop to shop?

"The kids can ditch their school tomorrow - let's boogie till we drop."

Alas, we are all steely folks, all set to do things right.

We can't afford a lousy day, in spite of a lovely night.

We've done the highway run tonight, where most of Muscat lay,

And as one pretty girl once said, "Tomorrow's another day!"

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Listen

Try listening to your heart beat
Slow down your run to a walk
Steer your walk to a park-bench
Sit there still as a rock.

Try listening to the snow-flakes fall
Hold the world away.
Lay your listening on the ground
Feel them whisper to your lips
Hear them landing with your face.

Try listening to the sea inside
Soothe the ruffling mind
Floating silently
Be thinner...quieter...bluer...molecular...

And listen with your life.

This Dark Diwali

This Diwali
We said no prayers
We bought no clothes
No guests smiled at us across the room.

We walked up a hill
And lay down to gaze up at the star-strewn sky
God's dark rangoli.
The universe gazed back with bottomless eyes
Willing us
To take a step towards the new year.

We lay still, not moving
For we knew that down the hill
Was the old year in a new yellow dress
Waiting.

First night

There has to be a first night.
There has to be.
No recourse, no reprieve, no escape from the burning dungeons.

She's gone. Not suddenly, not without notice.
But the heart is always a bit late. Not late really, just not in the future, that's all.

I knew for so long that 5th August was to be the day.

.

Almost empty wardrobes, dust on the floor, the bedroom furnished yet not.

.

No goodbyes. A small halt near the door. To see whether I'd come out of the bedroom. I didn't. Sat there in relief and in sorrow.

.

Big memories packed into one of the cartons. Small memories fluttering like pieces of duct tape. Clinging on in unexpected places. Removing themselves with yelps of uprooted roots.

.

What does it feel like, what SHOULD it feel like, I wonder. To think that you'll be alone for a long time. It's heavy and murky in there. Dark with disappointment, sluggish with disbelief.

.

Memories detonate inside without notice. TV, fridge, sink, toothpaste, shoe-rack, chest of drawers. Only me now dears, to pull your ears. The knobs and handles must be carrying her fingerprints yet.

.

Bed seems double the size permanently. A bit of moonlight on the empty space. Smiling in wrinkles across the body print. Smoothen it out. The cold light plays on my knuckles, soothing.

.

Shouldn't I write a poem or something? God knows when I'll feel this way again.

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