Visitor

artwork by amina

on the edge of the sofa,

uncertain guest, choking

a little amidst

the cooking smells.

We stared at each other

silently, and I,

who had forgotten

the art of small talk,

left the room.

In the kitchen, with the rattling

of raw peanuts in the jar

and hissing

of mustard in hot oil,

I decided to offer

myself, crusty,

a little charred;.

so, lying flat on a tray,

floated down,

and found --

an emptiness.

In the morning,

wandering across

the vast hall and quiet spaces,

I looked for him.

Life, like a teakwood sideboard,

stared back, images

flickering

from the television screen

upon it. Someone

had turned the sound off

and the empty lips,

glossy and bright,

mouthed empty words,

across the vacant air.

By noon,

uncertainties

like dust mites,

had gathered on the door,

the sofa sagged,

and cigarette butts

left holes.

The smells of cooking

had grown a little stronger,

perhaps

another ghost

was hovering

by the stove.

No one arrived,

though lunch was set,

and the forks

and knives

lay limp upon the table.

The rumbling began,

not in the stomach,

but elsewhere,

and the dish lay

still and empty

through the day.

By four o' clock,

the tea leaves

told a story,

at the bottom

of the porcelain cup

whose handle

broke that day.

The lonely witch

with the tarot cards

stared back

from the silver glass,

and I knew

it was time

to find my face again.

There it lay,

in jars on the dressing table,

in bits and pieces

and such a multitude

of shades.

How could I

put it all together?

How could I

ensure the cracks

didn't show?

At eight o' clock,

all made up

for the grand night out,

I waited for the bell

to break the silence.

But the poem

stood me up again,

and the make-up

began to streak

across the face.

I did not go

looking for him,

not that night,

or ever again.

Menka Shivdasani's two books of poems are Nirvana at Ten Rupees and Stet. She lives in Mumbai.