MITHRAM BHAGAT

 

 

 

They say the friendly Bhagat

Has a way in this world

Even if his pockets are empty

And his group of close friends

Are no more to be seen.

The robin speaks to him in the morning

Asking him to fly a bit

Without bothering too much about

Not having wings.

 

Everything is possible

Though the date and time

Remains a riddle

And the needle is ready for the camel

If he were to thread or tread it that way..

 

At Pragati maidan

They were feeding shaheen falcons

With large chunks of meat

Maybe not out of fondness, or passion

But with poison, one doubts.

They did that near the airport

Since air-crafts were want to fly.

At Chidiya ghar in Jaipur

We saw them sitting low

On a stretch of trees alongside a stream

With one wing broken and hanging,

Or maybe putting up a play on the clipping

For me to watch.

Near the bridge there were two women watching

Clad in colourful frocks and thick smiles

And I watched them

And the birds

And the tightness

Of some expectation in their eyes

And in mine, flaring passionate

Maybe I could be of use,

To the birds

Or to the women,

Or them to me.

And as we moved on

They sat down under a tree

And i wanted to draw them, 

To draw them near

I  was also, thinking about that array

Of broken birds

And the cruel twisters of wings

Of which I remembered some.

Maybe Rah would come and drive them out

As it often did.

 

In the zoo

I saw lionesses mating

As true lesbians do

Without a king to queen.

A monkey masturbated

Sitting on a low branch

Frustrated by the townsfolk

And the tourist’s fare of cheap biscuits

Thrown at them

Allowing no excess or pleasure.

The hoopoes, green bee eaters,

Sparrows of several hues

Swallows that flew over the terrace

And came back as the tune tried to pick up

The flapping  and cadences of their wings

Utterances, swift turns, and passing

Before picking up the chirping of a squirrel

Or the crow's crowing,

And oggling at the mynah's yellow glasses

Or a holo’s umber wings.

The monkey balances precariously for a moment

Sitting on a high branch

And I wonder at myself who had once had a vertigo

As a boy coming down an arecanut tree

At a jiffy, a wood cutter

And seller of jack tree leaves

To neighbours who had goats.

With their wet nose that smells the leaf

Out of your hand

The smell of urine, and their pellets of shit

I remember the goat whom a middling woman

Had kissed with passion

And remember some of us

As having tried to draw it.

The monkey with a swing for itself at any time

Could have become something else round the corner

If men had the kindness to let them leave.

 

A dove that came to my room

Taught me the difficulties of co-existence

Banging its head against the window pane

Several times, before she could escape

And another cute white one on a tree somewhere

The holy spirit, caught up in a chalk- circle

Then turning more common and brown-grey.

 

A newly hatched little one of the seven sister'sclan

Came and sat on my chest

As we sat underneath a tree

Reminding me of how the little group which

Were always there in our front yard

Had disappeared altogether in my childhood

When one day I had climbed up a tree

And pulled down a nest

In which there were new born young

With grey and turquoise blue feathers.

 

The birds were looking for their friend

A Mithram Bhagat who could speak to them

A St.Francis, Suleiman 

A peacock that calls out in the night.

And Karthikeya’s peacocks dancing for you

At Thiruppara-kuntram all together, once

And just one white one in a bush,

Barely visible, on another visit.

Sometimes at Modhera, the pigeons listened to the cooing,

Dancing to a tune so fine

Of broken rhythms, playfully innovating

As the sun blazed on and gradually was setting

While you were peering curiously

At the knots that were to be untied

Before a free bird

Could emerge, faultless, and with flapping wings.