Poems | Khaliq Parkar

Photo : Khaliq Parkar 

Multani Mitti

Long before
my aunt from London
came visiting with chocolates
and
Body Shop Body Butter

My father
would treat himself
on Sundays
to a Multani Mitti
face-pack.

My brother and I
would watch amazed
as muddy patches on his forehead
dried
into flaky skin
a bit like
The Thing
from our Fantastic Four comics.

While furiously rubbing
walnut Scrub Face Wash today
I was reminded of the Sunday morning
when I felt the sticky mud
on my cheek
turn back into dust

And wondered how far away
Was Multan from
Bombay.


Track Record

They told me
to go running everyday.

"It triggers endorphins" they said
with benign smiles
that came from an indulgent experience.

So I went down
to the university grounds,
with its eight hundred meter track
made of bumpy clay.

I ran with heaving lungs
distracted
by the undergraduate trio
in their pink shorts
and the scowling emeritus.

I looked down
at my new shoes,
and saw big black ants scatter
from under my lightly thumping
pliant soles.

It has been a month now,
and the trio have disappeared,
their schedule probably disrupted
by exams.

I am yet to feel
the promised endorphins,
but have calmer lungs,
a lighter stride,
and my latest track record
is thirty-seven ants
in fifty-three seconds.

Photo : Khaliq Parkar 

Erato

The little pauses,
like pips
between your teeth.

Every segment of the orange,
a pocket of translucense
we pull away
from the skin.

Little strings of white
remain attached
to the other ends
of our conversation