Poems | Gayatri Majumdar

Aurangabad, 

February 2017 

Photos by  Gayatri Majumdar

1.

There’s a strange light throbbing

flashing –

beyond the neon light

of the hotel room

silhouetted by trees

the red light strobes

to the beat of my heart.

Bodhisattvas wait 

outside

their begging bowls 

gathering dust and rain water.

On the train ride

the costly Baggit peeps out

of the cheaper mirror-worked 

Kutchi sling bag.

I possess both; disown both.

The thing within will always pinch your soul.

Everything white

inside the hotel room

– the walls, sheets, split A/C,

coffee cups and cigarette.

How did you do it?

Guide me home –

from shore to shore

across subways filled with stench

up to the caves of Tiruvanamalai

down Churchgate B-Road right opposite Sydhenam?

Blowing smoke and censuring,

right on time every time

like when you waited to die

on a perfect basanta morning

lest I stumble or miss the bus?

Now following footsteps of Bodhisattvas

I arrive

in an accidental space.

To think I’ve looked for love

and some loose change

in a boundary-less universe.

As you lay wasted somewhere

on the debri

of an outer star and restless night,

a single sweat swelling  

your holy temple 

in an erotic kind of way.

Past endless lands 

of onions and cotton fields

Bodhisattvas walk

to bring color and succor 

to some forgotten hills

and moon-lit hoardings.

We come the longest way

to tomorrow;

carry the torch in our eyes

and a few cheap metaphors

in our pockets.

2.

Then we babble,

say they know nothin’

‘bout consciousness and other realms,

you know with their

constant chatter and suspect demeanour.

And the wavelets rise and fall

thoughts, desires and lives

dissolving then into an oceanspread.

3.

Am in love with a man

several centuries old;

and as I walk down these stony paths

those centuries flash past my eye

erasing my very existence.

It’ll take me a few centuries to get there,

but am willing to wait.

You took several of my breadths away

when you held my face

and gasping I looked up

at the divine ochres and blues of your face –

Bodhisattvas and apsaras in white

hidden in ancient caves

protectors of truth and light

from some very dark forces

in some very darker spaces.

Earlier our bus driver in khaki & Ray Ban

briefed us in his

unstitched English.

All through the ride

he turned reckless corners

at breakneck speed

to loud 90s Bollywood music,

to help us reach our destination sooner

and to make the ride, well, enjoyable naturally.

In Cave 16, or was it 10,

a Thai monk with elaborate tattoos,

flashed his laser light 

to study the floor 

for any telltale signs of miracles and satoris

where Bodhisattvas meditative sat

eating their meager meals

at the Lord’s feet –

So much beauty in 

so little, it hurts;

in next to nothingness

conquering the unlit

defying fear

brave soldiers of the believers.

Many more Bodhisattvas 

in long silver beards

sit on plastic chairs

waiting for their chai

outside shops piled with tyres

on long Sunday evenings

discussing flat tyres

and the price of onions.

I photograph large goddesses 

guarding themselves and the rear chamber

with weapons 

and their bejeweled nakedness.

Consciousness then comes easy

away from ravages of distorted beliefs

and loud traffic noise

as I count birds and flowers

and the change

I hand over to the man selling plastic souvenirs.

At the entrance to the same cave,

the goddesses’ breasts defaced.

The world fell with a thud,

but noiselessly

as I stumbled falling

in the dark

at the feet of the man

I love.

And the bored and tired

couple said, “how many

more steps? The caves

are all the bloody same.”

Just when I thought I finally arrived

I lost my head

when the guide snatched at my cell phone

accusing Me of wrongdoing!!

This life was never mine,

never will be again.

I should have left my self

eons ago

before the light caused heartburns.

4.

Time used to be

a random man

I waited for 

day after day

blood draining my face.

Time ran away with her,

I got the consolation prize

and several unborn babies.

I whirled with time

showed him a step or two.

Americans filmed the acoustics of 

one of the caves

to the chants of

“Oṃ maṇi padme hūṃ. . .

Buddham Sharanam Gachchami . . .” 

reverberating across the cosmos.

And the yellow Buddha on the cushion cover

in utter silence gazed

at time drunk sprawled on the floor.

Shivaji, our guide and auto driver,

says he’s a Buddhist; 

he wears a large yellow tilak 

and insists we visit Aurangazeb’s grave.

5.

Meanwhile, elsewhere consciousness 

comes with a price

in a heartbroken city;

it’s never easy to remain balanced

on the debri of lost glories

on Park Street.

But balance we must;

dodging stars, mini buses and stranger planets,

cross flyovers across timezones

and try to not get killed

by a massive Supernova called Sophiya,

her fuchsia headlights and purple fairy-lights

playing a game of hopscotch 

in another dolphin’s dream.