CROWN SHYNESS A COLLECTION OF POEMS & ILLUSTRAa TIONS BY ROHINI KEJRIWAL
I am learning from daily disappointments. Burnt rice, Trees emerging from potatoes, Piles of unwashed clothes, Gathering that funky wet dog smell. I ask myself the difference between being gentle and fragile. I do not find what I’m looking for. I ask the seeds I planted four days ago, They tell me to be patient. I ask my mother for an answer, She cannot comprehend the question. I ask my journal to show me the way, I write VULNERABILITY 25 times on the page. I try to be fragile. I shatter inside. I try to be gentle. It feels alright.
if you don’t break the pattern, it breaks you.
i am learning to live without your touch the way many species of trees do. i look up at the leaves that talk almost touching, but not quite. i stare, awestruck at nature’s jigsaw puzzle the perfect distance maintained between the pieces. perhaps a gentle breeze will sway me towards you, the canopy shall come alive for two lovers to gently touch, momentarily.
The universe has still not provided me a satisfactory answer about why some people go through life as if they’re dead while microbes continue destroying mankind and things don’t taste the same as you remember them and you are still not ready to accept the change that everybody’s in on and you wonder why nobody told you that banging plates and lighting lamps was enough to save humanity but you know the truth is that there are superheroes in broad daylight risking their lives to save ours and it’s not a fair world and you want to know why the consumption of cats and dogs is only now being frowned upon and why you suddenly feel sick in the stomach from the explosion of unsolved words on to this page.
With a tired heart, I write these words. My home’s a mess. And I’m out of curds. In week one, two and three, I cleaned and cooked so much That by week four and five, I’m completely out of sorts. The internet provides me With recipes and inspiration But I’m running low today On my dose of motivation. When I look at the calendar, The numbers don’t add up. I try to learn a poem by heart, I’m tired and give up. I am grateful to be alive, But I am losing my mind. I try to be gentle with myself, But I can’t do it all the time.
Suddenly, Everything is a trigger. A meme on Whatsapp, Something you said, Or didn’t. Paper cuts. Stupidity. Bad haircuts. Trolls. Deprivation. Excess. It sneaks up on you On the most perfect of days Aggressive and unwanted. Like a bad drunk Ruining the party inside your head.
These aren’t ordinary times. Stop pretending like they are. Don’t let your inbox get to 99% full. Optimise storage. Find things that spark joy. Let go of everything that doesn’t. Stay home. There are warriors wearing masks Saving lives in hospital wards While you worry over the choice of pasta sauce. Call home. Life is fragile, Time is fleeting. And there aren’t enough I love you’s you can say Before the curtain falls. Think less, Love more. Be kind, Be kind, Be kind.
In the time it took me To write these lines Over 250 babies were born, A 109 people died, And 3 others took their own life. I touched my face 0 times. Multiple orgasms were had Worldwide. My heart beat 72 times, My body shed 30,000 skin cells, While the universe expanded forever. In the time it took me To write these lines Another poem was born inside.
the clouds burst, breaking the monotonous silence of our dragging lives i watch the man under the umbrella, face neatly hidden by the swaying mango leaves i see the crow and sparrow take shelter, alternating birdsong flood the air, caw caw, cheep. caw caw, cheep. we have been silent together for so long that i have begun to hear music in everything
The timeline of the world will be divided Into the Present and the Future For practicality’s sake. You will be given 24 hours To go back into the Past, Tell your loved ones you love them, Visit your childhood home. Speak to your dead father, Tell him everything you never did, Say goodbye to yourself, Before the new world begins. When the stars realign, The clock will be reset. Yesterday, a lost notion From a distant universe.
i write and I write and I write in the hope that one day, this wild goose chase will end at the doorstep of the perfect poem that has been awaiting me all its life. but in truth, i write and i write and i write, to find comfort in adding a tick next to the box marked ‘Write’ in my daily checklist
i like the way these words feel against my skin
David Hockney sits alone in his Normandy home, Watching winter turn to spring. Ruby, his dog, naps in the sun, As the octogenarian toils away, A pack of Camels close by, In isolation with nature. Amidst the elderflower blossoms, The chirping of the starlings, Odes to spring manifest In vivid technicolour. If we could enter paintings Like I do in my dreams I’d have liked to go on a walk with you.
I’ll remember it as the summer of death. The news so overwhelmingly real One could almost smell death Through the screen. I’ll remember the countless evenings Spent alone on my balcony. The stillness outside, The turbulence within. I’ll remember the unsung heroes, Leaving their families and lovers So we can live another day With ours. I’ll remember the fear and loneliness The coming undone, The piecing back. I’ll remember it as the summer of death, When humanity came alive.
I have so much more to say to you. You embody selflessness, Ma, A quality I hope I inherit, Perhaps leave as a legacy If my turn should come. You show me the virtues of simple living, No room for complaints or judgment, Only kindness and love. Your purity Inspires me, Ma, Though I don’t say it enough. Sometimes, I awake from dreams of you. The pillows drenched with yearning For a mother’s tender love. I need to say I’m grateful For letting me be me, For the unconditional love and sacrifice, For everything in between. I need to say I’m sorry For leaving, And returning, Only to leave again. I need to say I love you, Ma, Before it’s too late.
Jiddu had no blueprint in place When he dreamt up Rishi Valley. The bright pink bougainvillea at its gate, Ushering you into his world. From chronic draught to lush greenery, He restored the land to its former glory. The Earth, a shared gift, To be treated with love and kindness. I close my eyes. The rustling of the leaves send me back. I am thirteen, Tracing back the steps To the butterfly garden behind the lost lake. I close my eyes. I am twenty seven Lying in the centre of the football field, Stargazing as I often did. Almost as if on cue, A shooting star passes overhead, I close my eyes and wonder Whether you had a part to play.
My strange poem for today: She was looking out the window, A fixed, abstracted stare, At the formless black figure outside. As the eyes got closer, Someone was banging at the door. The neighbours saw and heard nothing. No muffled screams or signs of struggle. From under the bed, My little eyes saw it all Those things without feet, Floating into the room, The window still ajar.
I am no longer attached to the idea that the world will return to normalcy. I cannot think of the economy when human lives are not being valued. I cannot think of a future when the past is being erased, one body at a time. Like the movement in the tectonic plates, I can feel the uprooting of our collective existence under our feet. The ripples from Wuhan, slowly making their way to every gully, entering even the most fortified homes. Can you feel it too? I dream of the day this will be all over. The khatta paani from the puchkawalla bringing me back to life.
An entire generation who ought to have known better turns a blind eye to the rigged game of life. We are under attack from every side. If the virus doesn’t get you, the colour of your skin or your surname will, eventually. History keeps repeating itself, fascism makes a comeback, the paradise on earth remains cut off from the rest of us while the planets quietly revolve around the sun.
One must smell the foulest of scents To appreciate what a gentle fragrance Is capable of. I climbed the mountain of garbage In the forgotten village of Mandur, A colourful pile of trash As far as the eyes can see, Birds of prey circling overhead, The whiff of a city’s unwantedness, Reeking in the air. I returned home to the scent Of jasmine oil in your hair, Lasun ki chutney wafting towards me, Somewhere, an agarbatti, Attempting to make my smelliness Dissipate.
The world never fails to surprise. Before bed, everything is upside down, The price of crude oil plunging below zero, No sign of a regular sleep cycle, China tries to feed the world bear bile, A delivery guy is accused of stealing someone’s dog. Yet somehow, by morning, The economy shows some hope for recovery, My energy levels are back on track, The lost flamingoes return to Bombay’s wetlands, The dog sleeps safely at home.
everything is restless the harsh waves crashing against the rocks, nobody to calm them down the morning after the cyclone, broken windows and bones the baby kicking inside you, ready to enter the world the unfinished story, hovering between the told and untold the bed shaking as the train passes by, violently rocking the cradle the endless tossing and turning, unable to sleep or stay awake the penning down of this poem, restless and undone
What will I remember of these days that melted into months? I try not to think of the worst case scenario. Someone, somewhere, has almost arrived at the cure. Elsewhere, someone dies of alcohol deprivation and unresolved anger, bottled up too long. I try to think of the day I will fly home to Calcutta, stay in my mother’s arms awhile, hold my little niece’s tiny hands. But there is a wall between today and the future that is far too tall and I am too tired to look up. What will I remember of April? Not the listless trees, waiting for the Baisakhi rains, late as usual. Not the mangoes plucked from the trees, waiting for ripening. Not the quiet strengthening of humanity, lulling me to sleep.
People break so easily, So do dreams. In our fragile state, Close to shattering, We find the strength To pick ourselves up Every single time We fall. If we were to pause life itself, Would the chasing stop? Or would it wait, Ticking silently, Like the alarm clock by my bedside, Until someone puts back the battery And brings it back to life?
My dreams have started to look Like Black Mirror episodes, The villain, somewhere intangible, The repercussions, all around. Someone has inserted a chip into my brain, The government is in on it. They are analysing my dreams, Converting them into neat reports On Google Analytics, They are feeding me my worst fears. I walk through corridors and corridors Mirrors on both sides, Unavoidable confrontation after confrontation, I cannot scream nor run. . I miss the dreams I had as a child, Too busy chasing flubber, And saving the world from alien invasions, To let the intricacies of past life traumas Enter the sacred crevices of my mind.
We will not forget How our motherland almost slipped Into a second Emergency We will not omit the little details From the pages of history For convenience’s sake We will persevere, Find strength in each other, Till the last one stands We will not succumb To virus or violence Without putting up a fight We will not bear The cost of democracy That’s all on you
For your 13th birthday, I am putting together the perfect cookbook, Divided in ascending order Of the density of memory per bite. Time will teach you How tastes can be Potent time portals, Nanima’s achaars, My father’s favorite kuttu ka poori, Made only on Diwali. You’ll see how the Passing down of recipes From our mothers and aunts Can retain the twinkle in their eyes Just how your Nani gets At the mention of mithai. You will learn about the Little pleasures of life Bite-sized memories That can turn a bad day around. I hope you get to skip The sad days section, Ideas for self care meals, To eat away insecurities Too complex to digest. I’ll even throw in the Survivor guide, Meals for one When you suddenly find yourself alone For 45 days in a row, And you’re too tired to Google Easy recipes to survive a pandemic
I do not remember the language of poetry The kind they taught at school. I do not care about the number of syllables, The correct use of allusions and metaphors. I find comfort, instead, In how the poem feels. The right temperature for brewing, The freshness of the words, The weight of each emotion, Delicately balanced on my zubaan.
When I was young, The atlas was a book of mystery. My little brain could never fathom How cartographers fit the world Into a neat two-page spread. Instead, I tore the pages gleefully, Turning the blues and greens Into delicate paper boats, Waiting for a rainy day, To make its voyage. Maps make me anxious these days, A reminder of loss, measured to scale, Of disappearing mangroves and broken bridges, Of imaginary borders that split the world Into too many shattered pieces.
I have to remind myself, That some goodbyes are harder than others An astronaut, bidding adieu to the blue planet, A mother, letting go of her stillborn child, The love of your life, unable to love you back. Sometimes, the hardest goodbyes are never said, Like when your father dies, without warning, All you can do is kiss his cold face, Hold his hands that were once warm One last time Before his face and voice begin to fade Because you were far too young. Perhaps that is why I find myself, Unable to overcome separation anxiety Two therapists later. I choose instead to write these words Too real to say out loud.