Illumination
I went to the mountains
to leave all my wounds
behind.
To bury it in snow
and free-fall my way
to a life less angry.
Eating oxygen in small bites,
I set out on my pilgrimage of pain,
hoping for a rebirth of some kind
or a phlebotomy at least.
Once purged of hurt
and rage
and self-pity,
I would
— finally —
bake that cake,
drink that wine,
buy those shoes,
wear that dress,
kiss that boy,
sing that poem,
dance that dance,
love myself
love my self
love self
love.
Breathless and bitter
I reached the top
and waited for the miracle to take place.
Unseeing of the beauty
surrounding me from head to foot
as my eyes were clouded over
by my own misery,
my tongue grew more
and more astringent.
Until
one magical morning
when these scent of pine
grabbed me out of bed
and pulled me outside —
I was transformed.
The sun. Rising.
Painting the sky
with
promise.
I did not fall to my knees.
I did not cry.
But my chest burst with morning prayer.
I was the first ever human
to have set eyes on the sun.
I went to the mountains
to leave all my pain,
all my anger,
behind.
I came back bathed in honey-gold light.
.
.
.
A Love That Keeps Flowing
We know a mother’s love
is depthless,
endless.
And You, o Ganga,
are the Mother of all mothers,
the Mother of us all.
It is this love
that lets you swallow
everything we throw at you —
our lies,
our waste,
our dead.
Silently engulfing all our misdeeds,
You flow on and on.
We desecrate,
we defecate,
we disfigure and destroy,
and still,
You flow on and on.
But Maa Ganga,
tell me,
mother to Mother,
sometimes…
doesn’t it all become too much?
This mothering gig isn’t easy,
after all.
Aren’t there moments
when you want to scream
“Enough is ENOUGH!!”
and just walk out
without a second glance?
Once You killed seven of Your sons,
so I can imagine You as the red river, rising.
But then again, You raised the eighth,
and were by his side
when he was at his weakest,
his most vulnerable.
You were his salvation.
As you were the others’.
As you are ours.
You will always shower us
with Your benevolence,
for that simply is Your way.
But at least bless us, Mother,
with wisdom,
with kindness,
and the good sense
to treat You better.
You deserve better.
.
.
.
A String of Words
Here —
I’ve gathered your promises together
and put them in an old sewing basket.
I will thread the needles
with your words
whenever I need to patch up
my fraying senses.
I collect stray words
dying words
like you collect tea cups.
You gift yourself
in a brew
to those who need strength
and succour
or, quite simply, just an unhurried ear.
By the time you come home to me,
I am given only the dregs.
I sift through my collection of words
and try to string them into songs,
but they always leave
a bitter aftertaste.
.
.
.
Favourites
What if I string together
some of my favourite words
for you to wear
as a talisman?
Would you throw it into a drawer
full of discarded things
or stuff it into your pocket
along with used tissues
and mint wrappers?
Or would you wear it
on your bare skin
like a silver chain made of moon dust
and starlight,
my words dangling on them
like charms?
Would you caress the words
like caramel toffee
and chant them
108 times
like a prayer?
I feed these words to you
as solace,
as ginger chai
and shortbread cookies.
I offer these words to you
as a benediction,
as birdsong
and bhaatiyali.
I gift these words to you
as a thumri,
a fairy tale
a picnic in the mountains.
They are present in this little poem of mine,
lover.
Seek
and
ye shall find.
.
.
.
Hello Again
I know Love will come again.
I know.
Love will patiently rebuild the bridges
I burnt down,
using his sinew and bones and blood.
He will mix the cement
with confetti
and rose petals
and hope.
Love will come to me barefoot
and wait patiently outside my door
picnic basket in hand,
carrying an empty notebook,
rainbow pens
and a jar of words.
Love will patiently wait
for me to write him poetry again,
bathing in the moonlight
and kissing the stars awake
while I try to make
sunflowers bloom on blank pages.
We’ll sip on chamomile tea
and eat strawberries,
lying on a bed
of autumn clouds.
Love will come again.
I know.
Baisali Chatterjee Dutt is a domesticated nomad who writes, edits, dabbles in theatre and teaches. Her poetry has been published in various anthologies and magazines, print as well as online.
Her latest novella in verse, “Three is a Lonely Number”, is available on Amazon Kindle.
Currently she is the Drama teacher at Sri Sri Academy, Kolkata.
Born in New York, schooled in Bangalore, with college in Delhi, Baisali Chatterjee Dutt now lives in Kolkata with her family. She has an MA in French from Jawaharlal Nehru University.
She eats chocolate by the bucketful. She has two teenage boys. Ergo the chocolate. By the bucketful.
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