Her lockdown poem

A poet composes a work for these times

careful. I’m passing through many problems and struggles in my life that have to be resolved but I didn’t want to sound negative... we’re anyway passing through difficult times.”

Here’s the untitled poem.

Grief, like an invisible illness, stays in the hollow of the bones

As do loss and pain.

In a perpetual lockdown

They feed off each other.

No one can leave their home

But loneliness has found a way.

It sneaks up and settles like a mist,

Slowly, silently making its way

Through the topography of my skin

My mind takes notice,

Shifts and tries to distract,

But there isn’t much I can do,

It’s not a new feeling,

I’ve lived with it most of my life.

Only people weren’t dying before,

There were no tired, blistered feet

Walking desolate highways,

Faceless, parched, hungry people,

Unloved, betrayed by their own

In their long trudge

To a home they seldom reach

A smouldering gulmohar tree

Rustles outside my window

I count my privileges

Ironically, lockdown has liberated me

While the whole world struggles To cope with this house arrest

I roam the pathways revealed

By each open window, each open door The sky is no longer a polluted dome Framed by mesh, blackened by soot But an oasis of blue, with trees

Their leafy canopies filled with birds Their songs breaking afternoon’s quiet With the cat at my heels

I gather the gifts the breeze brings -Neem blossoms and raw mangoes -Kacchi ambi sliced and dusted

With red chilli and salt -This is summer in my city.

At the nearby corner

Amaltas drape the meeting of streets, They come together just as always, There are no prohibitions for them. Farther along a Siris -Drugging parakeets with its fragrance I step down to forage for mulberries, The starlings make their usual racket, A Rufous treepie watches,

A koel’s melody fills the near stillness. I remove my scarf of anxiety,

Throw it casually into the breeze. A crow approves.

Soon the shadows of evening

Will stretch long and thin,

Pointing to my horizon.

Then I’ll drink in the moon

Stirred with tamarind and jaggery Someone raises an eyebrow,

“Is it ethical to write about pleasure, About your privilege in this crisis?” “Ask a woman who has long dreamed, Dreamed of a home and has found it,” I reply.