Poet: Anuradha Nalapat

1

My living room is from where I watch and I hear
the rain drenched, head bowed, fetal earth.
A siren of cricket song in ecstasy emanates from her,
her sighs punctuated with two little bird tweets
and a frog croak. Just two little bird tweets
and a frog croak, right here and now in my living room
from where I watch and hear, soon after the downpour.

And no, there is no presence of absence here,
ecstatic is the absence of a longing,
of the short breath of discontent,
the tall hooded presence of doubt.

But Sushhh…absence has ears.

2

In a blink a chariot of thoughts ruptures to a halt,
a trained spinning, a metallic clanging,
marauding the sanctity of my living room,
from where I watch and I hear, and so do you.
Here and now, my jaws drop, my heart pounds
like a lizards at the sudden swipe of a cat claw,
here and now I’m flown to the abyss,
in my loose jacket and orange spikes,
the shadow of death in my revolving eyes.
I walk the tight rope across, now bearing the long breath
of release, and now the short breath of misery.

In a whisk, the tall presence of absence is ignited,
the presence of longing, its long arm, in liquid gown,
here and now, reptilian intruder in my living room,
in the pivotal absence of two little tweets and a frog croak,
and the crucial trill of cricket song, emanating in ecstasy.

3

So soon after I had tended to the marigolds,
and accosted the barren Jacaranda,
listened to the impatient babblers and the red perky bulbul,
soon after the guppy flashed silver next to the blue lilies,
and past the scented lemon grass and jade,
and in spite of the presence of mountains, rivers, lakes,
the oaks and the teaks bearing hails and storms
and rain clouds and sputtering suns and their moon

There’s absence!

4

Its invisible presence right here in my living room.
Its hood thrust from the cellar in my thoughts chambers.
It leaks into my kitchen where onions are chopped into strings,
where green chilies are slit bare, the tomatoes crushed flat
and the dough beaten into submission.
Not so unlike nations at war, pounding, cutting to shape,

chopping and grinding flesh and marrow and spirit to taste,

sought and wrought in thought chambers.

A door in the wall away, in my guestroom with no half-full glasses,

no books with ears, no cat hair in corner chairs,

no wet towels, no shirt or skirt hanging bright from racks,
only the sanitized presence of absence, its vulture wings spread
in brooding corners, sought and wrought in thought.

5

Just a few yards away where the black ants zigzag,
no presence of absence. Not in the cat’s eye prowling bushes,
in the bee curling tube roses, no, no presence of absence.
And yards away, far beyond the hoardings and the check posts,
a sign board away in another town, another land and language away,
where also you and I, we watch and we hear, the presence of absence
wrought in thought, in the loud coaxing of billboards,
the sighing of shampoo labels, sensuous in bright red,

chicken breasts and shiny waxed apples, the presence of absence

infiltrating our senses, entrenching in us.

Its silent presence everywhere, spilling over in drunken banter,
in feigned mirth before a selfie, in simulated bravado for a click,
in the slow meticulous herding of habits into violent diets,
and altered violence and it’s clever masking as a need,
its hungry anointing in society as new age,
all harbingers to the presence of absence,
right here, now, in our living rooms.

6

Here where not even animals dare tread, mankind!
We watch now, we learn now, spooked to precision,
to embrace the fake, the tall presence of absence,
to engage the unquenchable, right here and now
in our living rooms, without the pivotal presence
of two little tweets, and a frog croak cradled in our laps,
without the crucial trill of cricket song emanating in ecstasy,
right here and now, and just a shy sigh away,

just a shy embrace away.

Anuradha Nalapat 2024