Fall and Autumn
Here, the leaves turn yellow first.
Not the bright yellow that blinds the eyes, like sunlight,
But paler, like life draining slowly from the hollow cheeks of an old man.
Then the leaves fall
Sometimes they are dry and hard
Dark brown, like burnt bread
At other times, wet and squishy
On rail-tracks, stopping trains.
Only some leaves turn red
All too sudden, as if in a hurry,
Like an actor in the autumn of his life
Tired of playing the same role
Each night
Year after year,
Now rushing through his lines
To go home and sleep.
This is the old country.
It was different once,
In the other country.
There, the sky was always blue
And the leaves would turn a glorious yellow
Then orange
Then brown
Then red
Then purple
And each leaf changed its hues at its own pace
Like in a kaleidoscope
Shifting colours each time the wind rustled through
And in the morning
You saw the remains of yesterday on the path
Now strewn with leaves of all colours
Scattered like on an artist’s palette
Refusing to leave
Savouring the moments still left
Looking serene in their dying moments
Fall’s fallen angels
Forever young.
The air turns chilly
The sky windswept
You tie your scarf around my neck
I hand you my gloves
You cover your ears, colder than ice
My hands in your pockets
Frost on your scarf, like twinkling stars
And we stay warm
By the bonfire
In the new country.
Shopping at the Masai market
At the Masai market
I see beads, crimson, ochre, and turquoise,
Shining in the sun,
Waiting to rest on your heaving chest.
I see those wooden spoons, salad bowls, and spatula,
Squirming and wriggling,
Missing your firm clasp.
I see skirts splattered with a zebra’s stripes and leopard’s spots,
Yearning to wrap around your legs.
I see ear-rings that droop and wilt,
Missing your delicate ear-lobes.
I see statues and masks carved of wood,
Of warriors and mothers,
Frozen mid-sentence.
As I am,
As I walk, avoiding people, saying “No, no, no, no, asantesana,”
To the men and women, who want me to take with me
That beaded necklace now losing its shine,
That large fork and bowl looking stale like last night’s salad,
That skirt, fluttering in the evening wind, forlorn,
Those ear-rings making tinkling sound, getting fainter,
And the statue of the mother, carrying one child on her back, one inside her.
No, I can’t buy any of those anymore.
That story ended.
The beads, the skirt, and the ear-rings are wrapped in a sari.
The spatula is layered with fine dust.
And statues don’t come alive.
And I grow old.
The Cat on a Cold Morning in Early Fall
Remember the black cat that used to come to our garden
For the saucer of milk you would leave out for her at night?
She came unannounced today,
On this crisp, autumn morning,
Three years later,
Just like that morning,
Three years earlier,
When you went away.
Sunlight rests on the leaves of the ageing trees,
The sky, cloudless and clear blue.
The cat smelt the wild shrubs,
Looked around,
Shivering slightly,
Feeling the chill of your absence,
Inhaling the still life fragrance of that garden.
And then she disappeared in that forest of weeds.
Last Night
I missed seeing the big moon last night.
I was told to look for it but I didn’t.
I have seen it at other happier times
At Marine Drive, its reflection scattered
Like thousands of fireflies trembling on water;
On a Himalayan night,
Lighting up the white snow;
At a farm in Vermont,
Illuminating the lake;
Holding its own
Against the glitter of Manhattan;
In Noakhali at midnight,
Its glow the only source of light.
At all those times it was my companion.
But it was different last night
And I missed seeing the big moon.
It shone for the world
And I missed it.
It wasn’t shining for me.
