Lockdown verse: Amit Chaudhuri and Biswamit Dwibedy reflect on the current times

Lockdown verse, as the name suggests, is a series consisting of poems introspecting, examining and reflecting on the times we are living in. For this week we have one poem from Amit Chaudhuri who is a novelist, poet, essayist and another by Biswamit Dwibedy, author and editor.

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Lockdown verse, as the name suggests, is a series consisting of poems introspecting, examining and reflecting on the times we are living in. (Photo credit for Amit Chaudhuri’s photo: Richard Lofthouse/University of Oxford | Designed by Gargi Singh)

Overflow

My mother in law’s arrived in lockdown.
Having had an extra fritter
made from katla’s fat
– ‘I’ve had teler bada before
but not this teler bada’ –
she could not sleep all afternoon.
‘I shouldn’t have had the second
teler bada. It was so good.
Amit would no doubt have taken it
if I hadn’t.’ I’m not sure
if she’s saying her subconscious
instinct was to be protective.

We give her jowan. It soothes her.
The next second, the plastic jar’s
flown from her hand. Open mouthed
she surveys the outcome –
the bed of jowan on marble.
‘The ones on the top can be salvaged,’ she promises.
‘Those are, believe me, fit for consumption.’
‘There’s no top or bottom here,’ I say,
examining the seeds from far away.
‘They must be disposed of.’
Even the maid’s
sceptical that something
so pure can be worthless.
‘How much is left in the bottle?’
my wife enquires. ‘Half.’
My mother-in-law makes a rattling sound.
‘That will last us the year,’
my wife says. Does anyone
need more than a pinch of caraway,
that too, more than once a day?
Add up what constitutes
half a jar, and you see
a measure of eternity.

I find the lid
was defective.
My mother in law has no cause for shame.
She has a habit of rushing to take blame.
The seeds have been poured,
as in an hourglass,
into a jar of Gold Blend.

— Amit Chaudhuri

“My other house is larger.”
–Cole Swensen

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My other house is larger, and each room
Full of trees on whose barks are etched
Names of lovers who’d come to visit.
Fruits hang, a different kind through each door,
Opening which we arrive at new continents,
Each one leading to another island more secret
Smell, thick with names in languages I don’t
Know yet, filling the books I haven’t read.
If I could just walk over there—
But as always, this body is afraid
of being beaten, shot, and so I pleasure
in stolen glances out the window
Now a man stands at the crossroads
Now a child stares at a puddle of water
(she squats at its edge) confronting her own face
suddenly changed as the city around her
Goes wild with desire—but for what?
We lean out the windows and clap at eight each evening
And the empty city becomes a spectacle—surprisingly warm
And bright. My other house is full of things I could devour
& never have to leave, or speak to a stranger, who appears
Faceless, in this corner of an ancient city, just outside
The Medieval walls, in fact—thinking—
This neighborhood hasn’t been this quiet since the last war
Which always teaches us just how little we need.
My other house is now full of echoes
Like the streets of an abandoned city of
Laughter, of long late dinners and
Friends who wait patiently hovering
Over the plates, knife and fork in hand
Remains mid-air; hold our promises there
Till I am allowed to walk in & bring the future
We’d dreamt back to life.

— Biswamit Dwibedy

Lockdown verse, as the name suggests, is a series consisting of poems introspecting, examining and reflecting on the times we are living in. The poets have very generously agreed to share their hitherto unpublished works. For this week we have one poem from Amit Chaudhari who is a novelist, poet, essayist and another by Biswamit Dwibedy, author and editor.