Minaret to Mandir: Five poems by Carol D’Souza
Photo: Karan Madhok
Poetry: ‘Before the tabla taal of inevitability / kicks in the apocalypse, the first few bars / of this blue ghazal are clear notes / of what could have been.’
Work Walk
Lazy dust dancing
in the shaft of mint morning light glides
past the bottle green of the weeping fig,
past the marble green of the neem,
past the pond green of the rain tree
to graze my maudlin cheek.
Birds call. They know my secret unhappiness.
Gazing at the sunbathing laceleaf heart,
the frigid anxiety in my chest thaws.
Here, cool, cushioned rooms
are named after
warm, plump mangoes—
haapus, malgova, safeda, dasheri—
after butchered orchards, uprooted by concrete.
*
Suprabhata in Saidapet
1.
Milk-white and still
she sits on the windowsill
waiting for me to wake.
Cats return to their litter trays
when they need to.
I am up to date.
2.
Please close the door. Thank you for closing the door.
The robot-woman chants to heavy metal clangs; this
modern morning mantra
*
Minaret to Mandir
At the altar of alliteration, and not insecure aggression, mind, I deconstruct the dome demolished and morph it to—minaret to mandir
In the best of times, humour is a difficult dosa to flip. In the worst of times, I risk my bread and batter to flip off this mob latched on to the minaret to mandir
Fumes from the havan rise to the heaven, and are confused. Thrones empty, the Lord and Pantheon have cut their losses and split
Strolling in the vān outside the range of the high-strung bhakt(i), Gods wonder how to brave through this din of minaret to mandir
The voting machine has been crowned Lord and consecrated with the zest of orange peels
Frankenstein-ed and frankincense-d out of civic responsibility, and sthaapit thus, could it stop this rallying for minaret to mandir?
God is the OG contraband, smuggled into music... Ram siya ra... which then worms its way into ears of even enemies
Ishwar who was Allah used to be Ram once in a dhun. No more, Mr. Gandhi. Who is this (i)doll presiding over the minaret to mandir?
Joke’s a participatory roast, when done left. Apart from the right spirit, sizzling skill it might still take to serve it crisp
Well done or not; and even if, in the end the joke is on you, Blaiz. God forbid, you go gently into this minaret to mandir.
*
Translation
These days my stupor lifts when the Bible is being read in Konkani
at the end of the evening rosary
In my mother’s dramatic enunciation
when Jesus laments, preaches and pontificates
I can hear the lilt and tenor
of the greengrocer in my hometown, or the fisherwoman,
or the neighbourhood young man
who returned to the local parish after ordination
Suddenly Father
and privy to the village sins
Gospel in words with the robust flavour of thick, spicy fish curry
and the creamy full body of coconut
Miles and millennia bridged in the breath
of my mother’s tongue,
of mine
*
A Black Bird and an Ivory Moon Regard Each Other
after a still from All That Breathes
Cerulean clarity of hope affords
celestial conversations a sky.
Before the tabla taal of inevitability
kicks in the apocalypse, the first few bars
of this blue ghazal are clear notes
of what could have been.
***
Carol Blaizy D'Souza is a writer and translator from Bangalore. She has taught in undergraduate and postgraduate classrooms. A collation of her work can be found at linktr.ee/cblaizd. You can find her on Instagram: @cblaizd X: @silentoars.
