Two poems by Janice Pariat
Janice Pariat is a freelance writer now based in her hometown Shillong after many years of being away in Delhi and elsewhere. She'll be attending a few poetry sessions at Dhaka Hay. She studied English Literature in St Stephen's College and Communications at Westminster, London. At the moment Janice is working on several projects: a graphic novel set in Shillong, a first novel as well as a collection of poems based on women literary characters and writers.
small liturgy
the church I went to had four bells
to startle the sky, those sounds
sometimes came from far away
and unexpectedly, like when
walking through the cemetery
with flowers for my grandparents.
how perfect to hear them here,
in this crystalised silence.
the graveside is a wading pool
of memories. I am dragged back
to soggy Sunday mornings of
church going with my grandmother.
the row of parked cars, rendering
small road smaller. the click of footfall,
the stream of faithfuls whose tributary
hands dip into the cauldron of
blessed water. those tall arches
that swept above me like stone
rainbows; the long stained windows –
playground for many-angled
light. the row of saints caught
in stoic ceramic holiness.
and we would choose a pew
among hundreds, somewhere
in the middle. my feet barely
touched ground. Yet the test,
I thought, was in the dust-grated
kneeling, how graceful the bent
of head, how tightly clasped
the hands. Hymn book in lap
was the time for dreaming
up stories of my own – to explain
how the fish was cooked to feed
the 5,000; how Lazarus felt when
he opened his eyes and once again
saw morning. All these interrupted
by song and mournful organ, that
seemed more than ever to want to die.
The bread, I thought, was broken
into small pieces because Jesus
was only one man, and there wasn't
that much of him to go around.
When I pass this place of worship now,
the wooden door has shrunk to the eye
of a needle. My feet have touched ground.
Roots
Although I cannot say
It was with you that I began –
Roots stretch back and
further away, portraits hung
in long corridors that travel
into shadows.
But you are there, hung
awkwardly on an empty wall,
an old black n' white
against its creamy smoothness.
And you are awkward too
in your uniform, with its,
(I presume) shiny buttons
carefully polished, not
knowing it would make
no difference at all.
Comic even, that large
up-turned moustache,
also impeccably waxed.
Nobody does those anymore.
But a face that is kind
under the one prepared
for the photograph.
Uncomfortable under
its lens, every flash
taking something of you,
until almost nothing remains
But clear glass.
I see nothing of you in me,
me in you.
Nothing passed down,
not even a name.
There is no one left in
the world who you spoke
to, who touched you.
Only a collective
forgetfulness remains.
I think that is what is
captured in your eyes –
dark and solemn,
handed down, alive
in me.
The fear of wandering
dark corridors,
with no one calling your name.
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