Combing Through | Garima Behal

The following poem by Garima Behal from New Delhi was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

Combing through my wet hair,

I pause.

Broken strands fall onto my hands,

my nape, my back, and onto

the bare, swept floor.

Dead. Scattered.

I know this is what happens

when the comb of years

runs through thin strands of memories

housed in the partitions of my mind.

Combing through the years,

I’m left with sliced memories

like diced apples with

their core discarded.

Once a part of all that I was,

No longer a part of all I could be.

Beyond the letters | Dishika Deepak Iyer

The following poem by Dishika Deepak Iyer from Mumbai was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

A poem is an ecosystem, 

Made by:

Reefs of nouns, adverbs and other parts of speech

Feasted on by tiny fishes of metaphors and similes,

Predator sentences that devour these fishes,

Zigzagging through punctuations and pebbles,

In the setting of themes and motifs,

Maintaining the delicate balance of a language.

Paralyzed | Niveditha Shree

| The following poem by Niveditha Shree from Vellakovil, Tamil Nadu was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

“Spiders.”

“Spiders. Spiders” I tell you

You asked the question but you are not really looking

or listening

or even hearing.

“Spiders” I repeat once more.

“That’s what I am afraid of” I say a little more loudly.

A pat on the head.

A touch of indifference.

“Oh. It is going to be fine. Tiny creatures. Harmless.”

And I go back to watching the shadows of the leaves,

Dancing in the sunlight.

These spiders, just tiny monsters under my bed.

Did I forget to mention?

The monsters aren’t under my bed,

They are everywhere, every corner, every step

Waiting to pounce on me.

To rip me apart,

Until there is nothing left,

Except for a pile of bones.

We are so lost, aren’t we?

On this earth.

Lost.

Trapped.

Paralyzed.

What are you scared of?

You ask me again.

And I mentally go through my list,

Trying to pick the right one.

But what if I tell you,

That I am afraid,

Of everything,

Of melting ice caps,

Of dried rivers,

Of forest fires,

Of plastic filled oceans,

Of simple conversations,

Of soulless conversations,

Of no conversation.

What if I tell you?

That I am afraid of something beyond spiders,

Of the voices in my head,

That are desperately waiting to be heard,

What if I tell you, that I am

Afraid of it all coming to an end,

But it never really began,

Did it?

So when I tell you,

That I am afraid,

Of everything,

Are you going to pat my head,

And tell me that,

“It is going to be fine?”

Matriarchal Patriarch | Neal Hall

---

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY NEAL HALL WON THE FIRST PRIZE OF ONE LAKH RUPEES IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020

Matriarchal Patriarch is a poem about patriarchy being passed down through generations by the hands of the women of the family. According to the poet, patriarchy is matriarch. It has been passed on by the same hands that have raised the boys of the family which has also mistreated and mishandled the females of the house. He says it has been passed on by the mothers of the household to the sons of the house to mistreat his wife. The mother-in-law allows patriarchy to take over. The patriarchy is passed down through the activities of women; things done by mothers and mothers-in-law to their daughters and daughters-in-law. He blames the women of the house for the never-ending patriarchy that has allowed the men to mistreat the females over the ages.

The poem Matriarchal Patriarch is powerful in nature. It has dared to put the blame on the woman rather than the man for the passed on patriarchy. The poem is strong and well-built. It puts forward the face of the matriarch that has never been looked upon. The daughters and daughters-in-law have faced injustice over the ages by the hands of their husbands, fathers and brothers but in reality it has been by the hands of the mothers and mothers-in-law that has raised the same men and who have allowed the mistreatment.

fate is not in your stars

but in part and parcel in you,

that you are an underling

the hand he raises is made of

the same hand you raised

you gave birth to,

breast fed and raised

his hand

fault is not in fate

but in part, in you,

you, this grievous weight bearing arch

shouldering a patriarchal fist

it’s you who teaches the son

it's his hand that sees in plain view

your hand when you raise your hand

against his sister, your sisters,

your daughters-in-law

you can’t demand your yoke be lifted

while you yoke your sisters beneath you

fault is not in fate

it grows in you, you gave birth to,

breast fed and raised the man

who raises his hand

fate and fault are not constellations

but a distillation, a condensation of

culturalized, traditionalized condemnations;

birthed, breast fed to raise the back side

of its hand to your daughter’s face that she

comes to know his will and her lowly place

it’s you, your hard-handed, handiwork

mandating domestic vocations over

economic emancipation from his high-handedness

it's you, the pretty ones

and ones the pretty ones say

are not so pretty

it grows in you in hues of light,

lighter and the lightest of white,

it’s your black specter cast from your black sun

beneath which the contours of your

dalit sister’s darker darkness can’t shadow

your deep well waters of matriarchal

privileges of light and lighter without being

brutalized within inches of her life

it’s you, your lipstick’d matriarchal arithmetic

dividing, subtracting meager domestic wages on

a niggardly patriarchal abacus that does not add up

nor divide out evenhandedly from your hand

it’s you, your hand that demands your

handmaid sisters enter separate doors to sit

lowly your floors before separate plates,

separate knives, separate forks, separate glasses,

made to eat separately sitting your cold matriarchal floors

too many their bodies your floors,

sitting there

too many of their hopes your floors,

dying there

and you wonder why he raises his hand at you,

you, the mother of daughters and daughters-in-law,

you who desecrate every universal law of dignity

against your daughters, your daughters-in-law

fate is not in fault

and fault is not in fate

they’re seeds in you to grow in you,

your daughters, your daughters-in-law

who grow to become mothers and

mothers-in-law who violate every

universal law of humanity against

their daughters, their daughters-in-law

you can’t demand the man above you

to lift his yoke from you while you

yoke the woman beneath you

it’s his eyes of his hand

that watch your hand clench

a matriarchal fist of misogyny

it’s you who teaches the son

you who gave birth to,

breast fed and raised his hand

that demand the dowry,

burns your flesh,

acid splashes acid to you

and your daughter’s face

it’s your hands, it’s in your hands that

first uncle’s hands first rape your first daughter

for the first time and her tears cry to try

to tell you for the first time and your first reply

to her tear-filled eyes is to bear this and

bury it in the wounds of her womb and

never speak of it a second time

fault is not in fate

fate is not in fault

but in part, in you,

growing in you that

you are his underling

it grows in you, you gave birth to,

breast fed and raised the man

who raises his hand against you

fate is not in your stars

but in part and parcel in you,

that you are an underling of

your raised hand against you

About the poet

Neal Hall is the recipient of Wingword Poetry Prize 2020. He received his undergraduate degree from Cornell University. After earning an M.D. from Michigan State University, he took his surgical subspecialty training in ophthalmology at Harvard University’s Medical School. Dr. Hall’s poetry speaks not just to the surface pain of injustice and inhumanity but deep into that pain, we label and package into genteel socio-political-economic-religious constructs to blur the common lines of cause, that is our shared story.

The Killing Fields | Zarin Virji

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY ZARIN VIRJI FROM MUMBAI, MAHARASHTRA WON THE SECOND PRIZE OF FIFTY THOUSAND RUPEES IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020

Zarin Virji writes about an incident that happens not only in India. An incident that happens everywhere but Zarin describes in the fields of India. She describes an evening chore that a female, unnamed, does in the rice fields. She collects the animal fodder, loaded on her head, walking back home with her quickend steps. As the evening breeze flew through her dupatta, four jeans-clad men saw her in the field. She calls them savage but also allows the user to call them whatever they want. She describes how these men cat-called her and made her their prey. She writes the gruesome heart-wrenching details of the rape and murder of the young female who was just on her daily evening chore. She was killed in the fields of her work. She resisted, she screamed and she bit but she was muffled by these beasts or savages and her limbs fell silent. She ends with a question, will the blood of these murders in the field feed and breed another crop of savage beasts?

The poem catches the attention due to its subtle yet strong and effective language and description of the incident. It allows the reader to imagine the scenario. Choice of words to describe the actions are not too graphic but enough to let the readers know what is happening. It highlights a very important issue in the country but also mentions that it is not limited to the borders. The safety of a woman is questioned in the poem. The savage behavior of certain men is being brought out in light.

An evening.

just another evening chore

collecting animal fodder by the ripening rice fields,

the woodsmoke from the distant dwellings winds its way up;

the sky darkened, the shadows lengthened, her steps quickened

while her plain cotton dupatta gathered the evening breeze.

The same evening.

just another evening out

for these four men, gelled and jeans-clad,

mounted on their diesel chariot, their eyes roved right and left,

settling on the girl whose head was heaped with hay;

just the tonic they needed, quite a prized quarry.

This gang of neighbourhood louts,

savages or beasts, call them what you will,

they circled, they hooted and dragging her further afield,

they looted, soiled and ravaged her clothes, her flesh, her innards.

The more she bit, the more she screamed, the more she dug

her nails into their muscled forearms, the more they squealed,

with deep grunts, guffaws and name-calling, they finished,

not forgetting to twist the dupatta around her neck;

their feudal swagger was heightened to bursting point,

after all, a vital lesson’s been taught to the girl and her kin.

Rag doll-like, her flailing limbs fell silent, bit by bit;

the rice stalks, crushed and dehusked,

lay waste beside her but the liquid, viscous red,

trickled and seeped into the soil in preparation for

the rabi crop - will it feed and breed yet another crop of savage beasts?

An incident.

Just another incident.

It happens. Not only in India.

Find out more about the winner Zarin and her inspiration to write the poem by reading her interview.

About the poet

Zarin Virji is the second prize winner of Wingword Poetry Prize 2020. She is a graduate of the creative writing programme from the University of Sheffield, UK. For over three decades she has played the role of a teacher, teacher trainer and head of school. 

Teaching and writing are her twin passions. From 1996 to 2006, she served as the executive editor of the journal, ‘Classroom’, a safe space for all matters related to education. At present, she heads an international school called ‘The Universal School’ in Mumbai.

Father's Shirt | Gopi Kottoor

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY GOPI KOTTOOR OF TRIVANDRUM, KERALA WON THE THIRD PRIZE OF TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND RUPEES IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020

Gopi Kottoor writes a poem that tingles a memory everyone must have of their fathers. The poet wore their father’s shirt that was pegged on the clothesline which was wet because the mother had forgotten to take it back inside while it rained. The shirt was bulging at the arms and at the paunch. The paunch where the globe spun when the poet laid by the father’s side and heard him snore. The snore is described to have a certain kind of music. The poet remembers the father who would wake up hurriedly and shower then rush to the prayer room. The father combed his bald head and proceeded to wear his shirt, the same shirt that the poet is wearing which had bulging arms and a paunch that was left in the pouring rain by the forgetful mother. The poet became the father’s ghost by wearing his shirt that day.

The poem is strikingly beautiful and sentimental. It reminds us of our fathers and their normal usual activities that makes fathers memorable. The comparison of the snoring to the music of a bird is a reminder that it will be missed once it stops. It is like a metaphor that the poet has grown to take on the role and responsibilities of the father by wearing and becoming the father’s shirt. It also mentions that the mother forgot the shirt in the rain which can be a mention of how busy a mother is. The poem is a beautiful reminder to cherish and enjoy with our fathers while they’re around.

Father's shirt

Pegged on the clothesline.

I remember the day

I wore my father's shirt

Bulging at the arms

And his soft paunch,

Where I imagined the globe,

Spinning

As I lay by his side

Hearing him snoring.

His snore

Had a certain kind of bird music,

Slipping somewhere along the bough,

To a bright sudden frog croak.

And when he woke,

He would take his bath,

Run to the prayer room, dripping,

Almost naked,

Comb his balding head,

As though it was still full of hair,

And slip into his

Terylene shirt

The one I wore,

But never told him about

Bulging at the arms,

His paunch.

How I became that day,

His secret ghost.

My father's shirt,

Pegged on the clothesline,

Wet,

That mother forgot

To take back inside

From the pouring rain.

About the poet

Gopikrishnan Kottoor is the third prize winner of Wingword Poetry Prize 2020. He has has also been awarded major prizes for poetry such as the All India Poetry Prize (Poetry Society, India) and the All India Special Jury Prize (Poetry Society, India, and The British Council). His poems have appeared in magazines of repute both in India and abroad such as The Illustrated Weekly of India, Opinion , Debonair, Kavya Bharati, Chandrabhaga, Economic and Political Times, The Hindu, Thought, Quest and others.

Camphor | Bhavya Malhotra

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY BHAVYA MALHOTRA OF NEW DELHI WAS SELECTED IN THE SHORTLIST OF WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020 AND WON TEN THOUSAND RUPEES

my grandma uses camphor

    to start her ritual of praying

            to greet the  goddesses

                 revered by every thing living

                         come diwali my sister and I

                       are loved and prayed to:

                because we are saraswati

and lakshmi; wealth and wisdom

   on other days her ripped jeans

      tears the family apart and my blouse

        too deep shows the cleavage of my own,

           and of society, and then, agony awaits the streets

              while guilt enjoys the view as if on a retreat.

                    the same camphor lights a fire

                that is too hard to put out

        she doesn’t know that fire is

    both: warming and consuming

Fragrance | Karishma Padia

The following poem by Karishma Padia of Mumbai was selected in the shortlist of Wingword Poetry Prize 2020 and won ten thousand rupees

My father changes his perfume often

The clouds

Bubbles of exotic smells

Announcing his arrival wherever he goes

He's territorial about his expensive scents

Telling us off for sneakily using too much

Taking from him feels like a sin

We do it regardless

Bathing in the mist

Walking around with our noses in the air

Till sweat wins over by evening

And we're back to earth again

My mother's fragrance is more reliable

Pond's talcum powder

Doused heavily morning and night

Routinely building up in our AC

Leaving the repairman coughing in clouds of white

It has no airs

It's easily forgotten but always there

Soaking sweat relentlessly

Neither demanding acknowledgement

Nor asking to be used carefully.

My Dad's Visits to America | Neethu Prasanna

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY NEETHU PRASANNA OF TRIVANDRUM WAS SELECTED IN THE SHORTLIST OF WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020 AND WON TEN THOUSAND RUPEES

They say, India: That is a mini world; And when my dad used

to visit me, a mini India used to come along with him, hooking

the fish of it in a dilapidated banana leaf, wearing an uncanny

urgency to come first, slum in the armpits pushing the heat out,

coalescing into a cologne, blocked somewhere between inners

and a blazer. Surge of pickles about to burst, contained well within

the pots by shackles, tapes, whacked by batons, belans, silenced

even in peak altitudes to look like nothing ever happened. Ankle-torn

socks covered with elite Woodland shoes, whose last letter is a t

instead of a d which nobody can really spot, other than me, since

he had bought me many Adidaz, Pume and Tommy Hilfigr before.

Jingle of aluminium molds, which are the future of a thousand

idlis, smoke and love, absorbed by spongy electronic carriers and wires;

Never shown to the mist or the skies since they’re born are the fries,

the fritters, taken the shapes of triangle or square in cartons, in tiffin

boxes, wrapped around by one round of paper, one round of silver foil,

still oozing out their curiosity through the multi pads of cotton towels,

touching every possible untouchables; For every hour that he couldn’t

kill, for a missing headset wire, for an occupied lavatory, the back-pedaling

it gives, for a waning boundary, it’s unstoppable anxiety, for a sudden

lift, a doodle was donated to his servant’s son’s experience certificate. His

dexterity with tight knots is remarkable. In spite of all the turbulences,

it kept the adult’s night creams and children’s DVDs, well within their

territories, though both were compartmentalized in the same bedsheet.

How much time he could have taken to send back with the driver, that

excess baggage which included my books, some grains, all nodding happily

in the trunk, having sent a deity, agarbattis and a mini pooja mandir abroad?

You're Allowed to Leave | Rhea Johnson

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY RHEA JOHNSON OF MUMBAI WAS SELECTED IN THE SHORTLIST OF WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020 AND WON TEN THOUSAND RUPEES

It is impossible to shake off the pigeons

from their dogged grasp onto everything,

the loft, the terrace, the roof-

the loft back again.

That blue-grey huddle,

that wooden whir always wheeling.

Nothing can make it give,

to leave and not look back.

Haven’t I chased enough ones to know

that a stone would only send them so far

as to half-moon right back?

Have I not wondered so much more

if they wouldn’t, just for once

in a long while,

surf the wind that blows

or perch on a branch or ledge,

not for anything else, but simply because

they liked the way it caught the sun?

Is that what I should have done too?

The Plague | Rhea Gupta

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY RHEA GUPTA OF NEW DELHI WAS SELECTED IN THE SHORTLIST OF WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020 AND WON TEN THOUSAND RUPEES

I access the apocalypse

through the guard

of screens;

a labyrinthine virtual insanity.

I exit multiple tabs

of reality

with one touch

I order around

with one click

I mindlessly scroll

past news articles

living through my black mirror

as a passive,

ever-ravenous consumer,

my reality is governed

by reductive, condensed headlines,

dehumanizing numbers,

graphs and pie-charts.

I navigate

through a capitalistic jungle -

hissing coils

of social media advertisements,

spider-webs

of IDs and passwords,

insect-like buzzing

of text messages in chat boxes,

a torrent

of OTPs,

rabbit holes

of online propaganda;

my world is a whirlpool

of alphanumeric seductions

and blaring rhetoric - 

“We are all in this together”

Are we? 

Easing into the sheer abnormality

of this ‘new normal’

seems smoother

on a Saturday evening

with a piping hot pizza slice

between my moisturized fingers

and my air purifier

softly cooing in my ears

as my house-helper sweeps

leftover crumbs off the floor.

Escaping the horrors

of a global pandemic

only takes a split of a second

and the soft tap of my fingers

against my remote control or

my cellphone or

my laptop

or I turn up the radio

in my car

as I rush past

the ribbed-pot-bellied

lying on the pavements, zombie-like;

the music drowns out their silent screams

and the stench of decay

floating through the air.

I conjecture

they despise me,

as they tap their dry fingers at my car windows

for a couple of pennies

to get through another night,

or perhaps

they’d give away everything

to be who I am.

I’m both Satan and God in their eyes.

I’m both a detractor,

as well as

a beneficiary

of this gaping divide.

The plague

is in the system,

in my system,

in everything

I see,

touch

and consume.

This contagion

renders invisible

the social distance

between the classes

in the minds of the wealthy,

whose ignorance and avarice

no sanitizer can deterge, 

whose hands

no soap can rid

the proletariat’s blood and tears of,

whose bank balances continue

to skyrocket

faster than the pandemic cases

as they transmit the virus

of exploitation

through their masks

of online donations

and exhibited philanthropy. 

I wonder

if there’s any pharmaceutical company

developing an antidote

against this universal pestilence,

thriving

on the dehumanization

of the necessitous.

I wonder

if my lyrical criticism suffices

in fighting off the infection

of consumer culture

contaminating my head.

I wonder

if I’m any different

from those

I showcase contempt towards

as I type away elaborate words

on my laptop,

in my air-conditioned room,

with a belly that’s more than full,

in a language accessible only to the privileged.

I wonder

if my wonder is substantial enough

to save a world

afflicted by hierarchies.

I wonder if

“we are all in this together”,

are we?     

We are safe | Ipsita Banerjee

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY IPSITA BANERJEE OF KOLKATA WAS SELECTED IN THE SHORTLIST OF WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020 AND WON TEN THOUSAND RUPEES

The rain lashed the walls of my face

Each drop piercing the skin as I chased

The old unused tent that threatened to fly

Off the terrace. Someone gave that tent

To my daughters for them to play with,

And there it stayed for years thereafter, out-grown,

But not remembered to be thrown.

The clouds raced their chariots across the sky

In gun-metal grey and charcoal, as birds

Flapped their wings against the breeze searching

For a way out of the storm, a place to call home

Even for a while. The wind blew in a flower

from three houses down. The maid silently weeps

As her daughter cannot be reached

She did not go to the evacuation centre

And the embankments have been breached.

But we are safe here, in our homes.

Outside the cyclone rages, winds blowing

In every direction, nature is so fierce, someone wails.

Nature reminds us now and again how small,

How helpless we all are. How small and useless

How weak and ineffective in our mighty towers.

Aluminium sheets from that fancy building

Rained from the sky, others danced the streets

Turning jagged corners as the wind

Spun them in the air. Trees have fallen

As trees in concrete tend to, their roots

Not deep enough to withstand a cyclone. The wind blew

In a flower from three houses down. How strong

Are the roots that you cling to? Where do you go

When you want to be home? Can you endure

This devastation? Do you have yourself to hang on to?

Do you seek or do you provide shelter in a storm?

For we are safe here, in our homes.

There is a mother unable to feed her child

Who feeds her hunger with drain water tonight

A father that carries the world on shoulders

That never have shuddered in delight.

Then, of course, there is Facebook

Asking, are you safe in the cyclone?

Have you kept your distance, have you been spared,

The whimsical vagaries of nature, are you home?

How are they, those who were walking?

Those whose homes have been washed away?

The wind has no sense of direction, it blew

In a flower from three houses down.

But where does the blood and water flow?

These are things we only debate and discuss

Talking in hushed voices, watching, wide-eyed

Videos forwarded in clusters.

You see, we are safe. In our homes.

Amma Can't Cook | Nila Lenin

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY NILA LENIN OF THRISSUR WAS SELECTED IN THE SHORTLIST OF WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020 AND WON TEN THOUSAND RUPEES

Overcooked rice sprinkled with leftovers from yesternight

carefully crammed into her little lunch box,

spared no effort to embarrass themselves

among lip-smacking pickles and spicy Mughlai

from Devi's and Aisha's,

adorning the lengths and breadths of their classroom lunch table,

whose flavoured aromas sculpt another dimension

with no friendly facades to hide behind and smirk. 

She lowers her head,

a matter of utter shame,

her Amma can’t cook.

Too much spice or too little salt, never too perfect,

for the taste buds had a tough time dealing with her mixtures.

A hair strand uncaressed for so long, that jumped to death

or a tiny pebble eloped from the ration shop, a souvenir unasked-for,

two meals a day provided a shelter home 

for the undesired and the lost.

From braving the breadline

to breaking the bars to make it,

class, caste, gender, you name it,

Somewhere between leading dawn to dusk,

mining multiple jobs to make ends meet

and customary yielding to nocturnal liquor-scented slaps

and choke marks that cling like a tattoo

around her long scrawny neck,

day-to-day offerings in vain for their only child's sake,

Amma kind of forgot to tend to

frowns, giggles and get-together belly laughs

that forever mouthed,

"Amma can’t cook.”

Fuck Boy Math | Dyondra Wilson

The following poem by Dyondra Wilson of New York, USA was selected in the shortlist of Wingword Poetry Prize 2020 and won ten thousand rupees

Add one chick 

Take away another 

My math game strong with 

“I’m not like that dude” or “I love feminism” 

Raise my chance in a power of seconds

I multiply my lies by the 100th increasing my decimal and rounding out the edges 

Divide my clothes by hers and we both back at zero 

Finding her slope I make her feel good as I hit my plateau

“Hey girl, why you so emotional?” 

I brush off her ​y as I get my ​x 

Adding on more women than I have eyes 

No need for fingers as I keep tabs in my head

And my hands on her thighs

Achaar | Aditya Vikram Shrivastava

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY ADITYA VIKRAM SHRIVASTAVA OF LUCKNOW WAS SELECTED IN THE SHORTLIST OF WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020 AND WON TEN THOUSAND RUPEES

Grandma scurries across the balcony

with her walking cane in hand.

Lazy city monkeys sit on the edge

of the parapet, feasting on raw

mangoes spread out to dry.

They play with pickles, sunbathing,

the tips of their fingers colored

golden in turmeric and spice.

On the clothesline, in the claws

of steel clips, an old sari hangs

loosely, fluttering over their small heads

as the mother monkeys pick lice.

They tear the clothes into halves,

granny winces, shoos them away

with all the loudness her breaking

body can muster, a prayer more

divine than her evening shloka,

until her voice cracks at last.

She keeps beating the marble floor

with the long stick that is

bent at the end like her back, till

all of them flee, become a distant dot

in the glare of that hot, quiet afternoon.

She picks the scattered pieces of

unmade pickles and checks them

for teeth marks. Unpins the torn

bedsheet and the torn sari,

carries them inside.

Her eyesight has grown weak,

and she can't sew it back.

So she holds it in

her shaking hands, and cries.

.

The fruit vendor hawks his lorry

on the clustered street, grinning

at her when grandma peers

out of the window, asks the price.

Her lungs shrink, wrinkles deepen,

Dasaratha weeps under her eyes.

The pickles should be ready

before the kids arrive.

Not a word | Keya Bergeron-Verma

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY KEYA BERGERON-VERMA OF MUMBAI WAS SELECTED IN THE SHORTLIST OF WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2020 AND WON TEN THOUSAND RUPEES

Conversation slips into the emptiness between

sidewalk tiles and sofa cushions,

grows old

forgotten,

unseen.

Listen:

a shy wind picks up,

permeates the vacant folds of day

that crave whispers not uttered

by withered people who know

that losing sleep is finding time

so they collect the darkened hours

following themselves back to houses they once knew

where the trees spring taller than the papers at their feet

and the heat is bearable because it once was born

and the air doesn't smell like half-filled suitcases and foreign shoes

but of lemons

and midnight

and silence testing time,

waiting on park benches

that have seen too many faces speak

but none that stop

for a moment

to be.

Breathing is a business

the price of air is high

why waste it on words that

                                           fall

                                                linger

                                                         say nothing at all

                                                                                     and are gone.