DNA

They came from the Papal State

and hadn’t been to a kindergarten

and exclaimed,

“Little men! We should be in Gulliver’s land.”

The “men” suddenly grew up

as if by mutation

and took the fathers

down the ages.

Till,

a sense of still being there

gripped them, and they hastened up

only to be frozen

in test tubes.

Truth

The blood mixed in the soil

is not lost—

God’s will reigns over planes.

The devil pollutes the day with tentacles,

the sea roars truth forever,

the son bears the father’s burden,

and love pampers rocks.

The lost wealth shall return.

In markets, fruits abound.

The bee sucks honey there.

With grace, we go to paradise.

Aura Aura Aura

Bengal!

Land of effulgence and horripilation…

Dominatrices,

flagellating momma…

Smouldering alphabets, and tear-stained cacti;

I do not know what!

Gilt-edged speech and soaring IQs,

Naxalbari and Nischindipur,

thorny-fish and mishti-doi,

swamps and stigmata!

I am your son from the desert,

Give me only…

Taka! Taka! Taka!

Memoir

*Mathru devo bhava *

But what I remember most is

the day she called me

and showed me her breasts

with scales setting in

circular pyramids of

translucent flakes.

With the labyrinths exposed

inside out

like a sea anemone.

I am an albino, colourless

but all her other kids are green.

Domina

On a gabled roof

of claymore mines

a crow perches—

I could never understand

this artistic obsession with pain.

Its sunflower blooms solar

till a woman on the internet

showed its priority

when she passed a DC current

into someone, strung up

just to take it,

writhing up and squirming

in ruined catharsis of all sorrows.

Excerpted with permission from The Moplah Speaks of the River, Umar Nizarudeen, Stitch/Antonym Collections.

We welcome your comments at letters@scroll.in.