New | Poetry | Two Poems | Bishweshwar Das

St Anthony of Padua, via Wikimedia Commons

Tuesdays at St. Anthony’s Shrine 

A glass enclosure

houses the solitary Saint

with a child in his arms.

A trickle of devotees 

red and white candles, 

flowers, and a million prayers

follow him every Tuesday.

 

He is the Saint of lost things, 

of missing dreams and hopes –

Limps, beggars, drunks, nuns, office-goers

expectant mothers, transvestites, peddlers,

they all gather here.

 

Their eyes closed, hands folded,

someone ties a thread next to an iron rail beside the glass cage.

 

As people pray and leave,

alms are tossed to beggars.

Ten-rupee bills and five-rupee coins,

sometimes, even a fifty or a hundred rupee note.

 

A broken-toothed beggar woman, walks near the mural in the alley,

lifts her saree and pees nonchalantly.

Good Morning Mr. Philips

Good Morning Mr. Philips, have a good day!

The sun is out shining, and the birds haven't stopped chirping.

I want to take you out for a drive someday, but I know you like your little walks

Soaking in the warmth and giving back your aged brittle bones their strength.      

For the lack of Vitamin D tablets, that you forgot to take

 

Mr. Philips, you remind me of R K Laxman's common man,

Sans the coat and dhoti.

I like how you dress though

In polyester pants and checks

How I wish you had a Spanish cap!

Wonder why your children and grandchildren never thought of it…

 

I like the measured steps you take Sir,

How your frail hands clutch the walking stick.

I wonder how old you are Mr. Philips

Maybe the oldest in the neighbourhood

And do you like this lane?

I am sure you do. 

You can walk here unhindered,

this lane with silent conversations

 

Those beagles never bark at you,

And Mr. Chico's Alsatian, never grumpy when you're around.

I try not to miss greeting you,

But did I miss it the last time?

 

Mr. Philips, you got me really worried –

A week of not seeing you

around these lanes.

The sun was out, but not you

The landlady talked about your hospitalisation one day,

And the fact that you had died.

 

The day you died, the sun came out in full glory

Outside your house, colourful footwear, 

far too many pairs, for me to venture in.

The smell of incense, of Jasmine and rose – a

a heady concoction

like rice beer.

You're dead, you can't hear them

But everyone spoke in hushed tones.

 

I saw you lying there serene 

But no sunlight reached where you lay.

Wonder why your children never thought of it.

That you who loved the sun so much, now lay without it-

I'd like to gift you a handful of warm rays

weave a blanket out of it,

a parting gift of sorts.

 

The service I hear is at Mar Thoma Church.

I wanted to come, Mr. Philips,

but there would be no sun there as well-

As you go down six feet below the earth, 

I know you will miss the sunlight.