Poem Collections By Nilim Kumar
Traffic Jam
As I drive out from home
I forget suddenly
where I’m headed.
But when I’m in a hurry
and stuck in traffic jams
I grow restless
and I remember
Many people tell me –
“I saw you the other day
in the traffic jam”
Yes!
But who was it that saw me in the traffic jam?
I have to enter another traffic jam
to remember.
Ruby Gupta
Ruby Gupta’s underwear had not dried out
on the day the Jallianwala Bagh massacre took place.
While gathering clothes she’d hung out to dry
up on the concrete roof
she noticed
all her clothes had dried out
except her underwear.
Frightened she was
since the evil event occurred on the planet
the same day
her underwear
took time to dry.
Now and then
I think of Ruby Gupta
who lived in the extended home of a novel
Nobody knew about the world tragedy’s connection
with this tiny garment of innerwear.
And she could not let others know it either.
Ruby Gupta’s underwear did not dry out
on the days of the world’s terrible quakes,
volcanoes, tsunamis and massacres.
She was never at ease without underwear
even unwashed.
In her childhood
her mother had taught her
never to remain without underwear.
Now, she only shivers with apprehension:
is her underwear dry?
She irons her underwear
on rainy days.
To save the world
she tries her hardest.
Door of Words
The door is ajar
This is not the one
that was referred to in
“My door will remain forever open for you”
A simple door it is
A cat just walked through it
And would sip the milk
if the house-owner wasn’t alert enough
The lady chased away the cat
and shut the door
Then
she too felt the desire
like the cat
to walk through the door
referred to in
“My door will remain forever open for you”
and to return
without the milk being sipped
The door of words
closes.
The Curve
All the beautiful curves
of this world are dangerous
Come, let us alight
at this seductive, dangerous curve
Look!
From this curve
one feels like taking entire world
into an embrace
From this curve
one feels like plunging down
to the green
Is this curve
dangerous
just because it is beautiful?
Or beautiful
because it is dangerous?
All the beautiful
and dangerous curves of this world
return us to our homes
Come,
let us return home
Tell me, sweetheart,
which way is your home?
Sea
Therefore the sea could never go to sleep
Always
The moon accompanies the stars
To have bath in its heart
The wind wants to sleep with it
The fish and the snails too
The boats and the ships
Dye its heart with vermilion
But it falls in love with
That girl who roams to pick up the snails
And does not go down to its heart
Therefore the sea could never go to sleep.
Guest
He entered inside
opening the door to my heart
without bothering to ask
He broke
my vase of Love
immediately after
Where from my friend this pest
arrived first thing in the morning
I fed him
And also
Attended to
Evening rolled in
He is in no mood
to depart
Night descended
The guest fell asleep
on my bed like a log
At midnight
He brought out a packet
from his chest
Handed over to me
And
Suddenly
He readied to depart
Said
He would catch the midnight train
I open the packet
and saw
His shattered heart
As was
My vase of Love
Where from this guest arrived ?
Where did he depart to ?
Where did he depart to ?
Shillong, 16th April ’89
The world’s hardest rock was sleeping
Under a white pine tree. The yellow intoxication of whisky
brought me to this rock. I do not know in whose search
The cracks and crevices of the rock were filled with moonlight,
The crystal body of the rock was sparking like a nude girl.
A yellow wind was whirring in the den of the ear.
My shoes were getting pale in the moonlight. Everybody
wanted as if to be nude in the moonlight, my clothes were
restless. The rock was folding up getting twisted,
bending towards my lips.
The world’s hardest rock was
becoming soft for two seconds
under a yellow wind, moonlight and a white pine tree.
Suddenly a wild thorn pierced me
Blood spurted out of my feet and I was surprised to see
that my blood was not red, It was yellow instead.
The beautiful women
The beautiful women get down from the city bus
And walk along the footpath. The bell in the town rings for eleven times
When the women arrive. The town keeps all of its windows to see the beautiful women. They dazzle in unique warmth when in the wool market.
The beautiful women never try for poetry. They shampoo once in a week and comb hair under the sun. A poet named ‘Hemanta shes’ composes ballads for them. The vegetables like to have a lift in the hand baggage of them. The beautiful women shop inners for their men. They take tastes of phuska in the street. The beautiful women become raring to go home back before sunset. The beautiful women get on the city bus against the rush. The town then fades away in distress. The city cannot follow the beautiful women. But, if they wish, the beautiful women can hunt the city.
Rain
Rain raised its hand and stopped the bus.
And noisily struggled into the bus
No seats were vacant
Rain remained standing clutching the handle
And pressed against me
The wind, the clouds, lightening or thunder
None of these companions of rain
Was sitting on the seats
The Men who were sitting
Were totally unknown to rain
In the bumping of the bus from time to time
Raindrops and the rim-jim sound of the rain
Spattered into people’s bodies
Some stretching their necks and some
Over the shoulders of other people looked at rain
Like a restless girl
Standing clutching the handles
Slowly the floor of the bus
Became all over flown with rain water
Even then no one said anything
All were silent
That is why
Rain put an arm on my shoulder
The papers in my shirt pocket
Become wet together with my shirt
And being wet
Spread on a half-written poem of mine
Kept amidst the papers
My lips without my knowing
Sucked drops of water of rain
Just like this without my knowing
Rain went inside me.
Inside me there was a tiny little sky
Having seen the sky
Rain started raining
When being wet from rain
From inside and outside
I am
Rain asked whispering in my ear
“ I hope you were not drenched in the rain ?”