In the last blogpost I had introduced Sudeshna Mukherjee who wrote in experimental Indian English like Ezekiel and it seems fitting that the next post is by Ezekiel's daughter Kavita (an aptly given name) who is carrying on the tradition in splendid style with two poems that are a fitting tribute to his legacy and three of her own fine poems you can read and enjoy at your leisure here - Dr Koshy AV
Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca was born and raised in a Jewish family in Mumbai. She was educated at the Queen Mary School,
Mumbai, received her BA in English and French, an MA from the University of
Bombay in English and American Literature, and a Master’s in Education from
Oxford Brookes University, England. She
has taught English, French and Spanish in various colleges and schools in India
and overseas, in a teaching career spanning over four decades. Before
immigrating to Canada she taught High School for sixteen years in the English
Department (Creative Writing, Poetry and Advanced Placement English, among
other courses) in an American International School nestled in the foothills of
the Himalaya Mountains. She also held the position of Career Counselor at the
school after her sabbatical in Oxford.
Her first book, Family Sunday and
Other Poems was published in 1989, with a second edition in 1990. She has
read her poems for the All India Radio in Mumbai, and her poem ‘Family Sunday’
was featured in an Anthology of Women’s Writing. She writes Poetry and Short
Fiction. Kavita is the daughter of the
late poet, Nissim Ezekiel.
How Daddy
wrote his Poetry
Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
The smoke curl
from the Menthol Cool cigarette
In the glass
ashtray
Touched the
ceiling
Creating patterned
shadows
On the paint-
peeled walls.
He only took one
puff!
He had no fear of
fire,
The knowledge that
The cigarette
would eventually
Extinguish itself
Was something he
trusted
Inherently.
As he lay on the
dusty bed
Triangle-fold
handkerchief
Over his eyes
Carefully removing
the
Delicately-crafted
glasses
I always thought
would break
With even the
slightest tap.
Then, moving to
the crowded desk
Hastily wrote a
few inspired lines
On pieces of
paper, blank or lined
Whatever could be
found.
Then again with
set rhythm
Back to the bed
Placing the same
crumpled handkerchief
Carefully
Over the eyes
Waited patiently
for the remaining
Lines to come.
He breathed deeply.
Or deep breathely,
As he was fond of
saying,
Perhaps invoking
the muse
For the rest of
the poem
To take shape.
Then he paced up and down
The sparse room
Reading the words aloud
And invited me in
To be both audience and critic.
Daddy typed with
two fingers
On the old
clickety typewriter
And the manuscript
was ready
To be delivered to
willing eyes.
Daddy wrote often
Into the early
hours of the morning
And I had to creep
into the room
Mouse-like
Cockroach quiet,
Remove the
handkerchief
Turn off the light
And tell him
He must sleep.
It’s late, Daddy!
I stood outside
his room
Until I heard the
familiar click
Of the old wooden
latch
And I knew he’d
get a few hours
Of fulfilled
slumber.
Epilogue
Daddy’s recipe for
the good life
Was to write a
poem
In every
circumstance
Joyful or adverse.
On a crowded
Indian train
Or lurching bus.
Ignore the stares
Of curious fellow travelers
Pull out the pen
and paper
And get to work.
And for a mundane example
To brew the
perfect cup of ‘chai’
One must immerse
the tea leaves
Into the boiling
water
And let them brew.
Walk away into
another room
Write a poem
Which will then be
the brewed thoughts
Of a pensive mind.
And the perfect cup
of ‘chai’
Is born!
Do not wait for
the muse,
Persist, to defy
the block.
Follow the simple
recipe
Of a beloved
beverage.
In my husband’s
home now
Far from my
father’s home,
When ‘Chai’ is
made
With combinations
of ginger
Cinnamon and
cardamom
Sugar, milk and
whatnot,
Father’s poetry
wafts in
On waves of spice
And earthy
freshness.
Memories are made
of this
And poetry too!
Post- Epilogue
Grandfather was a ‘science’
man.
When father won
A poetry prize in
school,
Came home
rejoicing to share the news,
Grandfather said,
‘Poetry, what’s
that?’
The child bought a
bar of chocolate
For four ‘annas’,
An ancient, humble
Indian coin
But a princely sum
to the boy
Who ate his treat in
solitary Silence
And tears of wept Hurt
Mingled with Hope
And secret Determination
To pursue the
Poetic journey.
Copyright Kavita 2019
Night of the Snake
By Kavita Ezekiel
Mendonca
Tandem poem to Nissim Ezekiel’s poem ‘Night
of the Scorpion’
Written In tender memory of my beloved
father
And for my son, Siddharth, so he would know
what transpired that night.
I remember the
night
My son was almost
bitten
By a snake
It will remain a
mystery what
Prompted him to
Crawl camouflaged
Onto the stone
wall
Outside our home
Across the
gleaming lake -
That dark, dark
night.
Perhaps it was the
rain, or
Simply the
darkness of the hour.
It did not move or
Rear its head to
Hiss or spit
Poisonous venom
At the sleeping
child,
Wet from his
soaking clothes.
Yet it rested like
a still-life painting
Etched in curves
of slithery colors,
An artist’s
rendering of beauty and evil
Simultaneously.
My other companion
Began to dance
madly
A Rumpelstiltskin
of fear,
While I
Frantic to appease
the curled one,
Begged her to
remain still
And simply to
utter a silent prayer
To whatever God
she believed in.
Unaware, the
child’s father
Watched a movie
with the school children
In the hall above,
Unsuspecting of
the drama unfolding below.
As the key turned
in the lock
And the house door
silently opened
Giving safe entry
to mother and child,
My companion
having fled to safer terrain
Leaving the snake
at repose, immovable.
No neighbors to
help or witness the spectacle.
Then the need to
return upstairs
And narrate the
incident to the child’s father
Forced me to creep
outside again
With beating heart
and stealthy pace,
The sleeping
child, now dry,
Oblivious to the
imminent danger
From the curled
serpent on the stone wall.
He had gone from
whence he came
Into the dark
recesses of his own mind,
Curled on someone
else’s door perhaps,
Or waiting
silently for an unsuspecting prey-moment
No creature or human
understanding could comprehend.
Thank goodness for
Divine intervention
That spared the
life of my precious child,
His father and I
said later,
As we wrapped the
bundle tighter,
Afraid it might
still be watching us,
From somewhere.
Note: Tandem poetry is a genre I have created for
poetry I write alongside my father’s Poetry. The subjects may be similar since
they are inspired by him, but the content of the poems are mine.
Copyright Kavita 2019
How to light up a poem
Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
‘Poets are troubled minds wandering in search
of lighted paths.’ (Original quote mine)
Gently petition the moon for some moonbeams,
scatter them gently on the path
Implore the sun for a ray or two, scatter
deliberately along the way
Ask the trees for shadows and silhouettes,
brush the path with shades of these
Strike up a conversation with the trees, soon
there will be a dialogue.
If there’s a stream, brook or a lake nearby,
splash some water to purify the air around the path
Surely there are squirrels to add their chatter
and birds to drop their feathers, in images of noise and Silence
Cherries and apples will add their own
particular flavor, you do not have to ask permission
The apples will fall when they are ready, like
the leaves in Autumn.
Flutter and lightly press the wings of the
butterflies and the buzz of the bees into the page
Catch and hold the colorful darting dragonflies
and blooming flowers close to the heart
A weed or two is necessary to write reality
into the poem, and some darkness for our sorrow.
Search with flashlights into the deepest eyes
of your soul, bring in your own inner light
Don’t hide it under the bushel, or it will fade
like the stars in the early morning
The solar lights will light up when the sun is
bright, sometimes on grey days too
And forget not the wind, that wind that fills
the sails
To steer the ship to shore.
If after doing all these things you do not
manage to light up the poem
Don’t worry, when the light wants to come in,
It will knock.
Copyright Kavita 2019
The Poetry of Homes
Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
The floodgates
have opened,
The dam has burst,
The words pour out
Like raging water,
un-muddied and clear,
Carrying
everything in its path,
My particular past,
present and future,
A potpourri of
objects from my childhood homes and beyond.
They remain etched
in black and white and color,
Almost mystical
mandalas, swirling in my brain.
The silver Menorah
in a corner of the bookshelf,
The painting of
the two elephants,
My father
poetically named after his daughters,
And the red
curtain, artistically lit by the lamp,
An unexpected flame
to the future husband,
And a tribute to
father’s love of aesthetics.
The lone cockroach
hiding in the curtain folds,
And the tossed
slipper missing its mark,
For the killing of
creepy crawlies from the garden.
The sound of the
scurrying mice,
And the mice
whiskers twitching in fear,
From a hole in the
bedroom wall.
The ancient
grinding stone in the kitchen,
The smell of fish
cooked on the slow fire for hours
Till crisp and tender
like chicken.
The twenty-four
black volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica,
With an article on
The Titanic found under T,
The two-volume
History of Art jackets, with their missing contents,
The borrower
revealed to mother in a dream, and duly returned!
And the sea, the
sea, a constant backdrop
To the ebb and
flow of human emotions.
The other
backdrop, the garden,
With friends on
chairs,
And children on
stone steps, doing homework.
Then the other
kitchen
With the Jewish
recipe for mince patties of golden crispy covered exterior,
And the coconut
fibers which shone the brass pots to catch one’s reflection.
The cooing pigeons
in the high rafters,
The tears of the
child when an egg fell and broke,
With no promise of
the baby pigeon in sight,
And the endless
dust swept up in vain by the broom
Of loving hands.
The sound of water
in the taps for two hours at dawn,
And the
philosophical discussion of grandparents,
To the background
of the old telephone, ringing, ringing.
The drums and
guitars of cousins, echoing,
To the house
below.
And the monsoon
roof, open to the night sky,
Frightening the
child with hidden monsters,
Real or imagined.
Then the
mountains, pine martens and flying squirrels,
The occasional blood-chilling
roar of the panther,
Echoing in the
silent valley.
The winding road,
conquered in lurching taxis.
A baby born to an
unsuspecting couple,
The Mission
Hospital blessed with the Himalayan birth.
The doctor’s hands
skilled and prayerful.
The groaning ‘pushta’* threatening to take the home
with it,
To the abyss
below.
The monkeys, brown
and grey, with their swishing Sunday noises,
The natural alarm
clock to the hope of sleeping in.
And the mountain
legs, climbing, climbing,
Up, down, up,
down, and into bustling town.
And finally, the
Wild Wild West
The end of the
line perhaps,
Or is there more?
Line dancing with
students, cowboy hats and boots, juicy burgers and sizzling steaks,
The reservoir with
a river cruise in season,
The boat horn deep
and haunting, heard from the kitchen window,
The cotton-ball
snow and the permanently painted grey sky,
With the summer
window, short and sweet,
Dotted with robins
and landscaped flowers,
Butter chicken, Naan**, Chole Bhature***,
And the ‘curry
drowned rice,’
All a salve for
homesickness
A recreation of
the beloved and the familiar,
And work, work,
work,
Rupee, Dollar,
Peso, Yen.
Take me home,
where the million people roam,
And let me lose
myself,
Where I once
belonged.
Or keep me here,
Bright eyed and
bushy-tailed,
Like the squirrel
that eats my tulip bulbs,
And thrives and
scampers on the pine trees,
On my front lawn.
So I can make a
home,
Anywhere that
destiny decrees.
The missing verse
is
For the first home I made with the man I
loved
In the gently
rolling hills with a mongoose and a lake
And a snake or two
curled on the tree
To tip toe past
The kitchen
grinder above
Grinding Grinding
Spices and romance
into new chapters
A male child delivered
to the new union
Travelling down
the hills
To the small town
hospital below
Amidst the cows
with evening bells
And the wooden
table with clock
Ticking Tocking
fourteen hours
Of pain and
subsequent joy.
* Pushta is a retaining wall
** Naan Indian bread baked in a clay oven
*** Chole Bhature – spiced Indian chick peas
with fluffy fried Indian bread
Copyright Kavita
2019
Alibaug
Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
There are places I'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
(All My
Life…The Beatles)
It was a village then
A ferry the only means to get across,
I went there often, even defiant of the Indian
monsoons.
My uncle owned a grain mill
He was a jovial man with a rich laugh
The grain poured out of the ancient machines
Like his patient and unselfish love for us.
My aunt was kind, like all my other aunts
She raised chickens, and cooked spicy food
Put ten chillies in the curry when I visited
Her usual was twenty,
She was an older sister to my mother.
She knew we liked the food less spicy
Father had lived in England
And we were accustomed to blander fare.
At evenfall we talked in soft voices
The hens were asleep.
Disturbing them meant risking
Breakfast without eggs
Once I watched a cackling egg lay an egg,
In the fields were cows and barking dogs
My cousin wove in and out of them
With me and my screams, on the bicycle,
He teased me because I was afraid.
The ocean lapped at the gates of the cottage
We walked barefoot on the sand
I skipped, he held my hand tightly
So I wouldn’t skip away.
My cousin caught the Puffer fish
That looked like pregnant women,
We must cook before nightfall
The lantern light was the only electricity then
A rat bit my cousin’s toe once
Paraffin was the cure, as I remember it.
But we got there defiant of the rains
It was home and very sweet.
Holding umbrellas over our heads
Willing the rocking boat
To land us safely ashore.
I had heard of Jesus in school
Of how He walked on water
And His command to still the storm,
I remember praying to have that kind of faith
The kind that stills the storm
I cannot swim, though,
I want to walk the earth with grace.
Alibaug is a village no more
My uncle has passed and the grain mill
Has passed on to new owners
I guess technology has replaced
Those ancient machines.
I read of the great developments there
Of hotels, rich residences, and tall buildings
You can get there by car or luxury bus.
I miss Alibaug
The flickering lanterns, sleeping on mats,
eating from *thalis
I miss Alibaug
The hushed whispers between cousins
I don’t know when I can return
To the land of my ancestors
The land of the Shanwartelis, the Oil pressers,
I yearn for the unsullied rustic scenes,
The dotted fields of cows and the music of
their bells
The hush of the chickens settling down for the
night,
And I don’t know where the fish sleep
In the folds of the waves
Or in the folds of my memory.
Copyright Kavita 2019
Note: Alibaug, also spelled Alibag, is a coastal town and
municipal council in Raigad district of Maharashtra, India. It is the
headquarters of the Raigad district.
Alibaug and its surrounding
villages are the historic hinterland of Bene Israeli Jews. There is a synagogue in the "Israel Ali" (Marathi इस्राएल आळी meaning Israel lane) area
of the town.[1] A Bene Israelite named Ali used to live
there at that time. He was a rich man and owned many plantations of mangoes and
coconuts in his gardens. Hence the locals used to call the place "Alichi
Bagh"(Marathi for "Ali's Garden"), or simply "Alibag",
and the name stuck.[1]
Wikipaedia
*Thalis – stainless steel
plates in which meals are served in Indian homes
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