Issue/Publication: Muse India

Poem

March 1, 2008

I gave you (and the rest of the world) two syllables
That could be stretched as you pleased, strummed 
On taut red rubber bands, or tapped out on worn-out tables. 

In the first act of intimacy, you dropped the second syllable.
You made me 'Mee'. You said that it meant 'Mine (Mine Alone).' 
When you wanted to make me 'Yours (Yours Alone),'
You called me to meet your father. 
You made the introductions. 
You called me 'Meenakshi.' 
(Translated, it meant the fish-eyed goddess).
An old-fashioned, hidden-away name 
Scrawled across my birth certificate. 
How did you know?

That name brought to mind cheap calendar art showcasing
A silent parrot with his stone claws on a fish-eyed goddess.
I could hear sadness come and perch on my shoulder. 
I sighed. I shouted in a special language we shared— 
The silky tongue where sky-fish meant shooting stars.

I saw myself with your eyes. 

Where others had sensed scales (that weighed them with every glance)
You somehow managed to see the tear-waters that makes these eyes fish.
You had told (to somebody, who later told me) 
That my eyes were sharp. And small. And sad.
In them, you had seen my shattered temple-roots, 
And heard the short-lived fish-songs of small seas.

I saw myself with your eyes.

Once, caught in their devouring grip 
My scream got stuck in my throat.
Your eyes were on a hunt.
When I swallowed my scream 
And returned your stab-like stare 
Your eyes were full with song.
That day I learnt 
That night wears your dusky skin,
She romps around with your thousand eyes . . .

I saw myself (Have mercy, I tumbled into love) 
With your eyes (Please, take the blame for being the lure) 

Here's my excuse:
Others' eyes were mere baits, 
Yours cast such strong, silken nets. 

In our strange story,
You sought the sea . . .
She swam into you.
With a single lusty fish,
And a certain mackerel coloured love.