Outside the Prabhadevi Mandir

Outside the Prabhadevi mandir, everything
is saffron: Lakshmi’s wicker basket of genda phool,
the BAL THACKERAY VADA PAV STALL,
Rafiul Islam’s Juice Stand banner (also his orange juice),
and the controversial nagda putla standing proudly up
ahead, at the border of Cadell Road. Everything saffron
-ised, everything the same as it’s always been, only
slightly modified. To keep up with the times. For instance,
the cows – Gowri, Sita, Komal, Radha – have been
grazing on the concrete street, half-asleep, for years.
But the saffron प्रभाादेेवी statue sign rose from the ground
some time between 2015 and 2019, years I spent studying
in Sonepat, searching for what it means to be at home,
what it means to have opinions, what it means to have
a nation. Everything the same as it’s always been,
only now slightly modified. For instance, I still spend
my evenings outside the Prabhadevi mandir. Only
difference: I do not have tears to shed, I do not have
anything to ask for, I do not have any reason to hold
onto sadness. Around me, friends order mango milkshakes
and mosambi juices. Without sugar. Tejas gives me a hug,
and I see the devi smiling at me from inside.
Yesterday, Sakshi Mallik was dragged away mid-protest
while Modi dragged a saffron clan into the new Parliament.
Today at home, I lit the villakku at 6 p.m. sharp, and saw
Muruga’s vel in its flame. Outside the Prabhadevi mandir,
Rafiul Islam accepts my Rs 200 note and offers me a genda phool
in return. Devi ke liye, he says. An exchange done
entirely in saffron. And my friends and I, we’re still outside
drinking mango milkshake and mosambi juice, making plans
for this weekend. So I don’t enter the temple just yet.
That is for me to do alone.

Bombay Prayer, 2008

After Francisco X Alarcón

something
was wrong
when we couldn’t
see the sun

the sea
no longer
held up light
in her palms

night
went on
for three
days straight

how easy
hands
became
weapons

no moon
no howling dogs
only gunshots
tarring the sky

the whole city
an open wound
bleeding
never clotting

and us
20 million people
unmoving
with bated breath

how we stared
at each other
how we stared
and stared

Panic Attacks

The umbilical line shivers under water, divides
the sea to deliver the message. She receives it:
sweat falls down her neck in the dead of night.

It’s morning for me. I’m scrubbing my face, the
water is boiling, the weather is cold, the heart
palpitating. At the beaches near us, the sea growls.

Elegy for When Nothing Else Can Be Done

Spent two years after graduation
walking in circles with Appa.
In a country so busy with disasters,
it’s hard to keep up with the news;
every page is, after all, an obituary.
But we don’t compare tragedies,
Appa and I, we just waste our time
tornadoing into yet another debate
on the latest communal attacks,
hospital fires, pandemic outbreaks,
or crying over the latest roster
of lost and found female bodies.

This is an endless, hourless, time
-less walk, and we walk around
the same building, walk around
the same family topics we always
avoid, walk in the rain and walk
in the anticipation of it. Pass Solkar,
head watchman, doing the books,
Pankaj, the maali prepping the
garden for monsoons, Meena,
Vyjayanthi, and Prajakta having
their bags checked at the gate,
the Rajagopals on their family
stroll, Billi, the cat, zipping around
on the prowl. Appa and I wave
to them with every round. Every
round an aarthi, a pradakshinam,
a ring on the same record I play on
repeat, every night in order to sleep.

Press the stylus in, turn up
the volume, the gramophone acting
as a loudspeaker during azaan.
So that everybody is invited.

An Inquiry into Tenderness

Lean into a cloud caressing your cheek.
Neatly fold sheets of sunlight and put them back

in your grandmother’s cupboard. Wear them
as a sari on bizarre days. They will make

sense. Let go of the paper on your tongue.
Watch the enormous cake of words rise

in the oven of night. Sneak into the pool
of his voice. Who cares if it’s past midnight.

It’s yours. Everything is yours. Take a swim.
Vaseegara plays. You don’t owe anyone

anything, you tell yourself, you keep telling
yourself. You’re with your best friend on top

of a water tanker. Dusk is to come.
Who cares how you’ll climb back down.

Excerpted with permission from Absent People, Absent Places, Saranya Subramanian, Westland.