by Arup K Chatterjee
There, in my terrace, as many people by now
Will know, is an aloe vera; the reason of the popularity
Of this knowledge, is the impeccable skins of those
Who live in my home.
Another arboreal member that peeps
From outside over my balcony, is — again a matter
Of common knowledge — a eucalyptus tree. I have often
Tried to estimate what must be the cost of its bark
Or its roots — while honestly it looks like a poor bartender
Who wears a fine sartorial garb, but essentially must wait
At the table, until cowardices have been downed and drowned —
Its existence is well known simply because, its leaves must
Sustain my halfhearted lungs, one half of which is charred by now
The ashes in the other half are soggy in rain.
It is raining, and while I need some aloe vera,
And some eucalyptus, to keep the daily pretense of
Vigorous living going on, I come out into the balcony
To pluck one of each. But instead, I stand at a distance
And watch them getting soaked, while I cannot decide
Whether they are just about to meet, or
Just about to turn away — the aloe vera has thorns
And by and by, as the eucalyptus branch tries to sway
Away, it gets pricked, and finds some of that is torn, which I
Habitually call my lung-giver.
What must they talk of, if they did
I really do wonder. I think their passions are spasmodic,
They have imbibed the spasms of our bronchioles and skins
And perhaps one tells another, or about another to someone
So that the lover’s message may finally come around
“It rains on the days when I don’t meet her,
Or days when she meets someone else
And on days when we have met it will rain
After we have promised to never meet again.”
There is only so much fiction that we can make with leaves.
The leaves are too brittle and slippery in rain. For me
To write the whole thing down, I will need an ink
More transparent than rain. For you to turn the leaves will claim
Nails as lurid as thunder.
Arup K Chatterjee has a doctorate in English from the Center for English Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University; his was dissertation titled ‘Hillmaking: Architecture and Literature from the Doon Valley.’ He has taught English, as Assistant Professor, at colleges in the University of Delhi. In 2014–15 he was the recipient of Charles Wallace fellowship to the United Kingdom. He is the founding-chief-editor of Coldnoon: Travel Poetics (International Journal of Travel Writing). He works very hardly at a Big Four Audit & Consulting Firm. His book on the Indian Railways is forthcoming from Bloomsbury.
Want our stories in your inbox? Subscribe to our Newsletter