Rumjhum
Biswas's prose and poetry have been published in India and
abroad, both in print and online. Notably in South, Words-Myth,
Everyday Fiction, Muse India, Pratilipi, Eclectica, Nth
Position, The King’s English, Arabesques Review, A Little
Poetry, Poems Niederngasse, The Little Magazine - India and
Etchings and Going Down Swinging – Australia. Her poem
"Cleavage" was in the long list of the Bridport Poetry
Competition 2006. She won third prize in a
poetry contest run by Unisun Publishers India in February 2008.
A flash fiction by her was shortlisted in the 2008 Kala Ghoda
Arts Festival literature section Flash Fiction Contest managed
by Caferati. Her poem “March” was commended in the Writelinks'
Spring Fever Competition, 2008. She won third prize in the Muse
India Poetry Contest 2008. Her story "Ahalya's Valhalla" was
among the notable stories of 2007 in Story South's Million
Writers’ Award. She participated as an invited poet in the
Prakriti Foundation Poetry Festival in Chennai in December
2008.. Links to some of her work at
www.rumjhumbiswas.com She blogs at
http://rumjhumkbiswas.wordpress.com
MAN
STANDING BY THE SHORE
There is a man standing by the shore,
looking past the waves, frisky and white.
He is looking towards the brightening
horizon. He is weeping.
He is weeping silently
with an oddly self conscious sort of abandon.
He is holding on to a plastic bag crammed
with indecipherable things and a motor cycle helmet.
His sandaled feet are digging in,
making washable prints on the wet sand.
He is pretending to flick grit off his cheeks.
His cheeks are the landing strip
for the spray from his eyes
to meet the spray from the sea
surreptitiously.
But the sea doesn’t need to behave surreptitiously.
The sea doesn’t care to cohabit
with the tears of the man standing by the shore
with his plastic bag
full of indecipherable things and a motor cycle helmet.
The sea has fish. The sea has shells.
The sea has boats with men in them.
And the sea has enough
tears to drown them already.
EMPTY NEST
Especially in the evenings, when the birds are returning…
Nobody ever told me how it would be
for the one who stayed back home.
Nobody guessed how this heart would feel
as it swam through that tunnel
down which a cold wind blows,
rushing in, whistling, hungry…
It makes little difference now
that we are rationing our tears,
ticking off the clock for running too slow.
We are conscious and conscientious. We won’t go
through the snap shots
every time the hours hiccup in distress.
This mind presents an unwarranted video show
at dusk - a private viewing. Exclusive.
Solitary.
My solitude has nudged into wakefulness.
It cries out without a warning: “Did we?
Oh did we teach them to fly too early?”
Afterwards, when the evening hours have crept
their full length across the wall,
and everybody’s gone;
when, like an old vinyl record player stuck on its pin,
parroting the last line of the song,
with only the words hanging back to haunt
this room,
my empty room, my nest:
I sense it again.
I sense this new pain in my womb.
Ah yes, especially, especially then. Yet again.
YOU WERE NOT THE ALMA MATER I THOUGHT YOU COULD BE
Your gray walls are patched
with moss and the gums of your old brick facade
are crumbling
your trees ache to shed the dust off their leaves
your driveway is a long litter way
your stairways creak
and rattle at the drop of a pin
even when the trams are still half
a kilometre away and
behind every evening shadow
a ghost gossips in whispers
while right outside
the City glitters past
flashing its destiny
on your boundary walls
before whirling away
into the hubbub of streets
Remind me
that Lansdowne Road is really
a street that cannot mind its own business
and the people cannot stop to think
Remind me
of the bus stop right across
where I stood and did not
bother to pretend
that I was waiting for someone
Remind me
how I stood watching the blankness
on your sodden walls
so shabby so crotchety
so arrogant and so rich in history
Remind me whenever I remember
how I could never belong…
WHEN MY DAUGHTER SINGS
Her voice rises
like a needle wavering
in steamy air
her head lifted
up to bring out the notes
her eyes closed
Squirrels cease
their chatter
bees pause in mid air
flowers half unfurl
lie still again
sky is swept clear of clouds
birds circle
take a ring side view
Even the sun stops
in his tracks to listen
 to
her voice
rising
always rising
as if to meet
the Maker
My heart twists around
and crouches
in its cage
but I hold on tight
leash in firm hands
for she rules over a land
that exiled me
years and years ago
© Rumjhum Biswas
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