Eyes can never have enough of the sea she has borne.

They say that the centre

of the Earth is a woman’s belly-

button, on the ocean floor.

Drain the seas and her oyster eyes

appear, encasing tears, reflecting books

tall as skyscrapers, the riot

of trees straight-jacketed. No wonder

they don’t speak to you now,

and the human voice, too, is at the edge

of disappearance. For a while,

the undulating lines of hills are being

mercilessly flattened – is he leaving

or returning? – but first everything was made

sterile and miniscule and veiled by layers

of cloud and a spectacular sunset for distraction

to the orchestra of orange windows.

Then the long, sweaty, choking auto-ride

from the airport to the station

and once again that cool, almost chilly

atmosphere of the caterpillar compartment.

She has brought him a bouquet of celery,

his favourite, and the saree is the same one

she wore when he had left, when he will leave,

but she doesn’t remember. How could she?

Now, any moment now, that face will appear,

the face of her rebirth, but it is gone.

Eyes can never have enough of the sea

she has borne. She will return home

to make rasam and rice, and after watching

the late-hour comedy serial with her husband

lie wide awake in the dark, the oyster

eyes prised, the ocean drained.

19-07-21

Mumbai

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