 |
| Arya Suraj |
Remembering Mali, Custodian of the Apartment Building
My mother's voice quivers over the phone from Bombay,
'No one missed him till the rotting stench grew unbearable.
They burned his hut with him inside.'
In soiled khaki shorts and a tee-shirt once white
he'd pick frangipanis and marigolds at dawn
for the Brahmins' morning worship of their stony gods,
sweep the building's yard and tend its flora,
be the landlord's servant in lieu of rent,
do any chore any tenant demanded of him,
and pestle sun-dried chili peppers for them
in a mortar waist high, an eye-smarting grind.
His nights were routine– head straight for King’s bar,
stagger back home with near-misses on gutters,
sully the quiet with slurred profanities,
swear to break the neck or leg of those
who paid him a measly rupee for his drudgery,
shout till he could settle on his open-air charpoy,
and sink into a welcome oblivion.
Sunday mornings, I'd find him squatting
on a patch of sunlight, his calloused fingers
rubbing his temples and drumming his bowed head.
I’d greet him. His lips darkened by beedi smoke
and teeth rust-colored from betel leaves he rolled
with areca nuts and tobacco, he'd grin at me.
I smile at the memory and linger on
his sober swagger set off towards the distant holler of his name.
Enjoy more posts by Mani G. Iyer HERE.
 |
| Mani G. Iyer |
Mani G. Iyer is deaf-blind due to Usher Syndrome, a rare, progressive genetic disorder. His poems have appeared in Book of Matches, Right Hand Pointing, Naugatuck River Review, and The Helikon Poetry Journal (translated into Hebrew). His debut chapbook, I Am the Dancing, was published by Yavanika Press in the fall of 2019.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please be supportive and kind in your comments.