‘To be out again inside the world’: These poems mirror slices of a life spent in the solace of art

It’s only 4 am, mother

Ma left in my arms, quietly
Without attention.
The machine beeped a little
And then she was gone.
In life, she loved sea breezes
Masala dosas, folk songs
Passages from the Gita
And lines from classic poems.
In life, she was life.
In death, she is an absence
The guests come to fill
But the bed remains empty.
Someone tells me it’s a good way to go
And I listen with attention –
A teenager who loves going out
Into evening, the wild spirits hastening
The darkness lengthening
Shadows that arms cannot hold.
Sometimes she asked for the world
And mostly she knew the time
Better than the arms of the clock.
The heavy feet of destiny came knocking
On the door, saying it’s time
To go, it’s dawn
With her breezy flutter, the promise of day.
Time to leave the world behind.

I entered a Vinod Kumar Shukla poem

Though the open window
And found a world inside.
Looking for a cricket ball from childhood
The one that smashed a window pane
Leaving smithereens and bringing everyone out from their homes
To watch kids scurrying away.

Inside, a cold dark table, no one there.
I felt my way along the walls
An old clock chiming.
The kid now works in America and is looking for a green card
The one that will keep him there forever.
The father is walking into sunset.

But there is still some journey left
To watch a cricket match somewhere
Along the well-worn road.
On a dusty street, where windows crackle when old.
The cricket ball must be somewhere in the corner,
It must have sneaked under the bed.

I look for the bed
Now no longer there.
The ball...

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