Smoke
The keteki keeps calling as a beedi swiftly
consumes itself. Borma, a nocturnal
bird, surreptitiously relishes the acrid
pungency of a burning tendu leaf. Skulking
in the shadows, she examines the remains of
the day, her feet with fissures of drying mud,
her dishpan hands. She says nothing as if
she has melded into the nightscape, her
brown mekhela is loam, her hair obsidian.
In kinship, the Ahot muffles its clamorous
limbs as the winds negotiate a path. Only, the
burning end of her undisclosed grievance
glows like Venus in the moonless sky.
It has been years since we last met.
Her face has now become a collage of
sporadic flashbacks. But she appears today,
in a parking lot as I blow a smoke ring at
the Norway Spruce. My hair is a niveous blur.
It has been decades since I spoke.
My words are little sparrows with bruised wings.
They live in sullen corners.
But we stand there on two ends of the earth, in silence.
Our fingertips touching, even as the ground gives way beneath us.
Glossary:
Keteki:A kind of cuckoo that often sings at night.
Borma: Father’s older brother’s wife.
Ahot: Banyan tree in Assamese.
Mekhela: The lower part of the traditional Assamese Mekhela Sador , pleated and tucked into the petticoat.
Norway Spruce: A variety of Spruce found in North America.
Ladies’ Washroom
I have traveled six hours to the venue.
Refusing water like a fish.
Passed six dhabas on the way,
missed a U turn.
Now, standing in line I lock eyes
in the mirror with a woman dabbing concealer on her chin hair.
The bride has locked herself in a stall, it’s cramped
and narrow. They never want us to take up space.
A grandma is spelling out the word ‘SEX’ in a
roomful of middle-aged women. The groom
was pris au lit. The talk is now
about orgasms they never had.
There is a great rummaging for safety-pins, as
everyone adjusts their sadors, pleating their mekhelas
in place with the usual tch,tch, tch!
Someone is cajoling the unfortunate girl.
She is erasing his name on her hennaed hand.
I am shifting my weight from one leg to another.
And then the deceived cries out in rage,
that same complaint in all our hearts.
“How am I supposed to pee in this dratted mekhela sador?”
Glossary:
Pris au lit : Caught in bed in French.
Jahnavi Gogoi
Jahnavi Gogoi is an Ontario based writer. She grew up in Assam ,and the landscape of her native home often features prominently in her poetry and prose. She writes in a variety of genres and her work often has a subtle feminist stance. Known for her haiku, she also writes longer poems from a feminist perspective. Her most recent work can be found in The Hoolet’s Nook, Pebbles by Petrichor Journal, Pashyantee,Poems India, Frogpond and so on.