ISSUE 46

As soon as the train glides out of C, the landscape miraculously changes from dark to light. The cows I see outside are suddenly mooing from the book in my hands. I relish my unpoetic licence; the delightful delirium of encountering daylight after a hiatus.

The underbelly of the megalopolis is a fascinating multi-layered maze, a far cry from languorous C. If you were to cut a slice, you would see lines and passages cutting across each other like nerves. Through these pass multitudes of people of different shapes, sizes, genders, and skin tones. Yet, they all look the same. And they all share one purpose: getting to wherever they want to go as quickly as possible. They don’t mind their manners. Nor the gap….
These bodies swaying to
the rhythm of the insomniac snake
these children of the hourless city.
Feet, coats, nails and all,
the movers and the moved
the pushers and the shoved
the old and the young
men, women, and dogs.
Bags, umbrellas, and poetry,
eyes down, nose up,
these are the citizens of
the underworld,
100 feet under.

When they emerge into the day, into the world above, they scatter like grains and disappear into the city. Here, the sun shines, lighting up the darkest corners, the old buildings, parks, towers, churches, the conspicuous high rises, and the broad river that lies like a colourless sari waiting to be folded.

No wonder it’s a favourite getaway for the citizens of C. Like me, they must be coming here when they want sunlight, when their pallor drives them up the musty, moon-drenched walls of their dark town; when they want just a little taste of the rush of urban madness, of high rises, hotel chains, and cheap wine. I’ve been in C only for a few weeks and I’m already here. It’s safe to assume that people who have been living in eternal night for years would come here to get their vitamin D directly from the source, one that everybody else in the world has access to almost any time they want. How true, the scarcity principle. How true that the whole world takes the sun as a given except in C, where the sun is an absent and valued commodity. As for everybody else, including me, how much we take this glowing star and its abundance for granted.

Perhaps this is what has kept C’s citizens going – the thought that they could always escape to the megalopolis, the blessed city of sun even if it was not their own. Funny, usually those in the city seek the quiet of the countryside or small towns. Here, it’s the reverse, though the megalopolis can take no credit. It’s the sun. It was always the sun.

The scarcity principle

Once I told you,
I must apply the scarcity principle.
The less I’m available,
the more you’d seek me.
The more I hide, the less
you’re likely to disappear, I said.

Sparse as hair,
scanty as god,
sporadic as the monsoon,
infrequent as sanity,
if I could become scarce
then you would value me, I said.

‘But love, why would you do that,’
you asked. ‘Scarce or abundant, it’s not quantity
that matters, it’s quality, remember?’

Dammit. I hate it when you’re right.

I stand outside the station in a corner right next to the exit. I consciously step into the street so that I’m right under the sun. I remove my coat and put it into my bag and roll up the sleeves of my blouse. My brown arms are going to get some sunny love today, I say to myself. I smile recalling the silly scarcity principle conversation. How it was next to impossible to convince him of my point of view. An old woman looks at me and returns my smile. I stare blankly at her though I’m still smiling. While I continue to stand in my spot, letting the crowd pass, I’m trying to decide where I should go from there. I linger for a few minutes. Then, realising that the crowd’s not thinning anytime soon, I start walking with no particular destination in mind. There are a few signs pointing to nearby attractions; perhaps, for a few hours I can turn into tourist from traveller.

Savouring the sunlight, I head straight to one of the famous bridges in the city for a view of the hushed river glimmering under the sun.

Later, I settle on a bench on the bank and breathe in the sun. It feels warm, like fresh bread and cupcakes – nice, round, orange ones. Through the haze, I can only see a poached egg. Still, it’s the sun. People are out, walking on the bank. I notice a young couple sitting on another bench. They are kissing.

I think of the couples in C. They are like lovers everywhere. Except that in the dark, their affairs seem strenuous. Their shadows, more prominent. I have to work harder as a voyeur in the absence of the sun. But here, the displays of affection are lit up. Somehow the light doesn’t bother these lovers. Huddled together on a bench, bundled tight on the grass, oblivious to the world, here they are, proud of their love.

The city’s days brighten their romance. Watching them from afar, I think of these images. Gestures and demonstrations of love reassure the world of the right to hope even when there’s no reason to hope, perhaps. The laws of restraint do not apply when hope must replace disappointment.

C’s days, on the other hand, darken romance. It must all be hidden. The laws of restraint are in force and so love must hide. In C, look for lovers in locked up spaces.
I know how that feels. I know how it feels to hide love, cower in anxiety, lower my head in fear, especially when it’s forbidden to love.

City night

To think there could be a night
when the city would allow us
to pretend we are strangers
and we meet all over again
when the city would swallow us
while we make love in dodgy hotels.
To think there could be one night
when the damn city would grow a heart
and we would breathe and laugh aloud.
To think there could be one more night
makes tonight that ageless night
when all I did was think we could
have one more night in the city of nights.

Enough of watching lovers. Their happy and sun-kissed love tires me. Determined to make the best use of my day in the megalopolis, I walk into a library. It’s life-affirming in many ways. There are busts of poets, anthologies, chapbooks, rare collections, journals, and magazines. The furniture is austere but inviting. There are at least five tables and each has two chairs. I choose a corner table that allows me the best view of the room. Walls painted white, it is a gallery of inanimate objects dedicated to poetry. Other than the librarian, I see no one else. Either the people of the city have lost interest in poetry, or they are all between the bookshelves, hidden from my sight. The whiteness of the library’s walls implies it’s fairly new. Or maybe it’s remained new because no one ever comes here. In the far corner, where the wall ends in a door that opens to the digital section, there’s a placard quoting a blues poem. I read it aloud in my head, trying to sing the words. What a wonderful genre it is. Blessed are those who can write the blues.

The placard draws me to the door, which is slightly open. I enter and find records and a jukebox offering selections of readings featuring poets I love and hate. Whose voice do I want to listen to? The one who had a nervous breakdown very close to C? The one who came to C to convalesce from disappearing words? The one who chronicled tales about the underbelly of a revered village? I ignore all those names and pick a pop singer whose words have always moved me. I spend a few minutes till I become restless again. There’s something very lonely about the experience. And I already have a fair share of that feeling. So I step into the main library again. By now, there are other visitors browsing. Thank God. Feels good to see other people. I’m very inclined to speak to somebody. The librarian seems to be the safest pick. He’s a young man dressed in a colourful blue and red t-shirt and jeans. I haven’t seen clothes like these in a while. Dressed in grey, I think of my own wardrobe, which is drab to say the least.

He looks fairly cheerful and ready to help.

‘Excuse me. Good morning,’ I say.

‘Yes. Good morning,’ he says with the most stunning smile I’ve seen in recent weeks.

‘I’m a writer and am in your country for a couple of months. But I don’t live in this city. I plan to come here on and off on weekends. Would it be possible for me to get a temporary membership card or something?’

‘Oh. Let’s see. We have temporary membership schemes, of course. But those are open only to permanent residents and not visitors,’ he says.

Visitors. I’m a visitor. The word falls on my ears as gently as a feather, but I’m not sure if it’s a bullet in disguise. Does visitor mean foreigner?

‘Right. But I’m here for a few months at the university in C,’ I say, showing him my identity card. ‘And you have a wonderful library. It would be a pity not to enjoy the books at leisure. Are you sure you cannot do anything?’

‘Yes, I see your point. Could you wait here? Let me just check. Please feel free to pick a book and enjoy it meanwhile,’ he says as he disappears into the wall. It’s a small door painted white and till he opened it, I hadn’t noticed it at all.

I’m pretty sure it’s not going to yield anything, but I wait anyway. I still have about two hours left before I need to be at the station. So I head back to my table and sit down with a copy of a journal from the 1950s. It’s a really odd publication, a weird collection of bizarre news articles, creepy poetry, and kinky photographs. Quite a brave publisher, whoever brought it out back then. I wonder who read it and why they read it. Hmm, if there are people who pay tickets to go watch a horror show or go on a haunted tour, why not this. We have an appetite for all things absurd, we humans. My train of thoughts screeches to a halt when I hear a loud noise.

The bookshelves move and a reader emerges, taking shape from the books. There are others lost in making notes, reading, or writing. Who are we? What is our relationship with these books?

We are but murderers

All of us readers, poets, ghosts, busts, aspirers, conspirers, whisperers, all of us sitting here and engaging with poetry – we are but murderers:

‘Stand back from the wheel when unlocking units
Please check aisle is clear of people
before moving shelves’

perhaps one day there will be bloodshed
bones crushed
muscles pulled
skin torn
between shelves
dead and alive poets
one day there will be death
between poetry.

The young librarian returns and comes to my table. He smiles apologetically and says there are no exceptions to their membership rules, but quickly adds that I’m most welcome here during my stay. I thank him, placing the journal back in the rack where it belongs and leave.

As I walk back to the station, I think of the words, ‘poet’, ‘writer’, ‘foreigner’. So I’m a foreigner poet. An alien writer. A visitor, a guest. Someone who comes and goes. Ah, nice lines. I can write about this; I just need to remember.

I have an hour left before I take the train back to C. I walk back to the bridge and stand there, watching the sky and the river. I take in the colour I will not see once I return to C: sky blue. What a majestic colour. I remember the set of paints I owned when I was little. All those different shades of blue … light and dark tones of sky, royal, navy, teal, turquoise, space, powder … the list goes on. Blue is his favourite colour too. It suits him. I once read somewhere that blue represents loyalty. Is he loyal to me? Am I loyal to him? I don’t know.

I take a bit of the sky blue with me in my eyes as I go to the station. The day with the sun spent in the megalopolis has been good. But now, I must head back to C where my dark night blue awaits.