'In Bronxville, I meet a banana tree' : Six poems by Devi Sastry

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'In Bronxville, I meet a banana tree' : Six poems by Devi Sastry

'In Bronxville, I meet a banana tree' : Six poems by Devi Sastry

Musa Musings

I. There is a trick to eating fruit; thin-skinned bananas are fickler than this generous cavendish giant, and if my mother had her way we would wait until darkness took it over before dipping it in gram flour, chilli powder, and hot oil. In our house, nothing ever goes to waste, so when I pick up an accidental Underripe, its continuous bite is loud enough to scatter the fruitflies. II. When steamed, they grow yellow. We unravel the cross-sections dotted with seed, (scorching nails from spent impatience) smash them flat with the undersides of our forks, and anoint the sticky mash with ghee and sugar. III. Purple flowers (so large you might think them the nest of something sinister) dangle heavy, false corn husks wilting in reverse, petals coyly rising with clandestine crop in tattered palm-leaf shade. Sometimes, we chop them off and eat them as a vegetable. IV. There are consonants that the english alphabet cannot replicate. The word for this fruit in malayalam contains one of them: pazham, and I could describe its sound as a cross between an “r” and an “l” but perhaps it is easier to listen to the sound you make the next time you bite into a banana. ***


In Bronxville, I meet a banana tree, watch its leaf curve over me, feel its skin between my fingers, and remember every meal eaten from its hands. Hands, dipped in water sprinkled dew on sadhya platters The patter echoing down a banquet procession The leaf returns the favour, spills rain onto my nose and reminds me of the crack of its spine folding over abandoned avial and sambhar-soaked rice, Heavy, still, with the guilt of my childhood inappetite Heavy, still, like the bellies filled with traces of its scent. ***

Sunrise Twigs

What are they? Outside my window, shivering as I wake and stare at invisible branches, thin as spider silk. They hang, wilted birds from childhood drawings - yellow, ready to spring but stuck, harpstrings dragged by the wind, a static song. They look like garments garden pixies might wear - trousers for skinny mini legs. Perhaps they’re the spirits of forgotten marionettes unaware that time has stopped for the puppeteer. ***

Bramha Kamala, or Impermanent Bloom

The mayfly flower may flower in May, but my bulbs are no bells to chime the jasmine’s drowning. Your face in the kitchen window sniffs, stares down, turns off the stove, rushes, calls out, and brings fickle chatter to my glow. For a moment, I, twisting up the garden pole, can draw your nose, then eyes, then flashing second sights, to this overlooked nook of home. You, thinking what a shame it is to breathe all life into one bloom, forget that after a day wound in your hair, the little white stars of jasmine fade, and you tire of their sweet rot. I am queen of the night, with tempered reign. Born of a god, but mortal, a withering ornament on rust. ***

India to her Monsoon

When the winds begin to blow Heralding your arrival My scorched sand is loosed I gain a life of my own I tremble I dance In anticipation of you. When you paint the sky a welcome grey And emerge from behind the clouds Whispering your presence Among the joyous cries of men and beasts Among the dancing of the drumstick leaves Among the shrinking crevices of my skin It is then that I love you most. When you bear the gifts of your travels And they tumble from the sky So that I may bear gifts of my own The dead streams flow again The forest's thirst is quenched And I regain the hues I once lost To the sun It is then that I am most grateful. When the sky can no longer contain you And your temper begins to wane Your winds go to war with my peepals Your waters encroach my riverbanks The dark of your clouds is broken only by the flash That precedes your thunderous voice The voice that once whispered The voice that silences mine It is then that I pray for peace It is then that I pray you leave. When the blue of the sky returns And you are long gone My drying rivers are the only sign you ever knew me Men and beasts, branches and leaves Lose their pallor Are silent Listening in vain for your song My children spill blood For a fragment of your memory It is then that I begin to hold my tongue And wait for your return. ***

An April Away

An April away, across oceans and day, an unsweeping wind ruffles the dog ears by which I measure my life. Thunder threatens and lightning cracks and looming clouds give way to hail, holy as the tree-trickle that tickles my nose after the storm has passed. Dust is chased to the far side of the plateau and my sentiment peaks, unhazed from fogs of indifference. I always remarked that my favourite season was the moment before monsoon. An April away, and I have bloomed with spring; the grass inherits my shed green coat and a rock face rises next to mine, dimpled in lichen and freckled from moss. Above, the yellow daisies are bold enough to stand apart, islands in uneven lawn. I pass the willow, ghost tree slow in the setting wind - other blossoms stark themselves, but the willow breezes, an old soul in ancient motion. Considering my allegiance to poetic prophets, it would seem only natural to join the tradition of interpreting personal attack from the unabashed joy of earth, but I am afraid I cannot agree. I cannot dread the robins or condemn daffodils, though foreign in fashion, for piercing my spirit. April is decidedly not the cruellest month. But could you expect otherwise from a tropical bud dispersed to temperate lands? ***
Devi Sastry is an undergraduate student of literature, creative writing, and languages. She loves to write and read poetry, and dabbles in theater and music. Her work can be found here.
Read more poetry on Bengaluru Review : Monsoon verses : Five poems for the season ‘And we smelt like guavas’ : Five poems by Nilim Kumar ‘You may see the city slowing down’ : Five poems by Malcolm Carvalho  

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