The Colour Gul
today Fareed Gul was shot down
by a convoy full of policemen
they found him at 5 this morning,
clearing the mounds of pellucid snow
that had gathered like anthills next
to his apple orchard
the men wore shirts the colour of an authoritarian green, skin the colour
of muddied rainwater, leather holsters held sleek pistols they instructed him
to stand up,
then to crouch down, to put
both his hands behind his head
execution style,
a total of four bullets were fired, the last between his grey brown eyes,
as if Fareed Gul was a cow
at the slaughterhouse
today Fareed Gul made no sound,
no ripple
his death was as shrouded in silence
as the blue lark's sleep,
just another power cut in a veiled valley that has learnt to carry kerosene lamps
the blood escapes his cranium
staining the like
raspberry juice, crushed pomegranate kernel, a melting laal gola
today Fareed Gul was shot, soundlessly
and today the women of his household
will walk in solidarity to the graveyard,
their silence so shrill, so soundless
even the falling of their foot
will sound like crossfire
today Fareed Gul's young pregnant wife will not weep but today will be the last of
the days her cheeks are flushed pink like rose water,
in time she will grow sallow
like wheat crop, the folds of her skin inundated with nameless worries
her newborn son, a nameless reminder
she will build Fareed Gul a mausoleum
in her heart but his name will never leave the curl of her tongue again-
a nameless martyr
today the valley will chant Fareed Gul's name and the names of others like him,
but tomorrow it will forget
there will be new corpses to mourn,
a new roster of names to etch into its icy brown mountains, its feather coloured facades
the Jhelum will flow regardless
the jamun trees will shed with just as much zeal,
the cedar blossom with just as much vigour
today Fareed Gul's mother will weep
but tomorrow she will look at the mint paint peeling off the walls, the lone squirrel running up the cedar tree, the children playing outside, clothed in pherans
the colour of dust
and wonder if they too will ever know
a pain like hers in their ephemeral lives
when she tries to share her grief she will find that it weighs more when fractioned,
that each day and with each time his name is murmured
her grief has a way of growing
heavy, unmoving, tyrannical,
that keeping it cloistered within her
is the only way of journeying forward
they will say
maybe grief isn't meant to be shared
today she will weep
but tomorrow she will agree
today was the day Fareed Gul painted the snow
but tomorrow it will fall again
what does snow know of who was slain,
of right and wrong and all the technicolour of all the lives in between,
what does it know of fighting for one's freedom
and how in our great land
the words revolutionary and terrorist
are often used interchangeably
what does it know of tombs and tombstones
that Fareed Gul's will read militant
to some
martyr to others.
Arrival In Phnom Penh
after emptying themselves out of a light rain
the clouds shrouding the city depart
leaving the mekong chortling
once more the roads are claimed by
shrewd eyed motorists, by iridescent tuktuks
ferrying a scolding of schoolchildren
even amidst this assault
I am drawn to the urchins and vendor women –
selling fried bananas & banh chev,
lok lak and roasted crickets, khmer coffee
and pork baguettes and cambodian beer
in tubs of ice – drawn like a kite string
to the assuredness of them
sticky and scorching afternoons I spend exploring the palace,
it’s quicksilver pagodas,
it’s cannonball trees
a palace cat trails me, eyeing the rice flour crepes in my hand
with insolent green eyes that
remind me of smooth jade in the night market
when the day’s end approaches
the city seems to vacillate then give itself up
to the cool, sparkling waters
of the Tonle sap
where a few decades ago carcasses had floated downstream,
water lilies now grow
quickly infesting the embankment -
an afterthought
climbing up the hill to Wat Phnom
I pass orange robed monks that ever so gently
bow their tonsured heads at me,
when I tip an imaginary hat they gift me
their clean laughter lines
So often I notice, arriving in alien cities
and between gold scalloped pavilions, I am given the chance once again
to make up who I am
to rearrange or reinvent or throw away whole bits, like vestiges
Here I am given a chance to forget my hunger, my hollow,
the emaciation of me
from up the hill a panorama greets me,
people, stray traffic going away then coming together,
ants and their lines,
somewhere below a woman lights an incense stick
then brings her palms together to pray-
it is the same way I have been taught
for a while all is silent
then the city- a million headed vertebrate-
stirs to life
an animal rousing itself from
the depths of sleep
A Bird’s Memory
Some birds are said to have capacious memory,
especially those that cache their food-
the nutcracker hiding mealworm or bitter fruit
in a knothole
a sapphire winged scrub jay stashing away
peanut chips or golden green shoots to
eat as winter snack at a later date
the nuthatches- small, insectivorous passerine birds
carry brown hoppers carefully parceled
under the bodice of their wings
to bury beneath a swell of leaves
even the woodpeckers are notorious hoarders-
wedging acorns, hickory or hazelnut
into hollowed tree bark as dry day treat
to be rediscovered and relished many moons later
wasn’t it grandmother who had said
most birds commit to memory only that
which is necessary for their survival
the difference is that they very nearly
have a choice
crows not only remember human faces but pass the information
among their circles
hey look there’s the ugly, bald man I was telling you about
that leaves me berries
and ornithologists have observed that chickadees
grow their brains to larger sizes specifically during a caching period
so they know exactly where to look, come fall
for the spoils of spring’s previous plundering- preserved peaches,
a pillage of pine nuts
or pistachio
as for me
I forgive the lapses in my memory,
do not begrudge time’s blind thieving
of my store it is all worth it
when I put my hands in the pockets of old trousers
and to my surprise retrieve a peal of coins,
a rare postal stamp
or peppermint or pressed flower,
an offering from my older self
to my newer one
some joys I am only able to gift myself
because I have forgotten
Thanisha Santhosh, from Bangalore, is a 22-year-old poet currently in medical school. She practices both written and spoken word poetry. Her work explores themes of race, mental health, body image, femininity and the Indian subcontinent at large. In her free time, she loves to read, explore her interest in the Neurosciences, cook, and spend time with her dogs (a Labrador and German Shepherd/ Indie cross). She is the recipient of a commendable mention in the National Wingword Poetry Prize (2018). Her poems have appeared (or are forthcoming) in Poetic Medicine- An Anthology, Sandy River Review, Hearth Mag, Creatures Mag, Riverbed Review, Sea Glass Lit, Strange City Digest and others. You can find her work on Instagram @_thanishaa, or her blog theministryofmotheatenmulberries.wordpress.com