The Shift
A worn out Papa emerged from the door
After eight hour tussle with files
His left hand cradling no lump of
Oil-slicked Brownness from Georgettan’s Sweet Store this time
But had gone for a lengthy one- an envelope
It grinned and vomited the whiteness of
Neatly typed English inside
His transfer order, our transfer order.
Six and half years, mother recalled
This house guarded us from the
Savageries of wind, rain and thieves.
White walls and blue windows
Opening and closing to the
Small Worlds of
Goa Auntie’s house of Bible Verses
Pinkie’s Pink house of Fried Chicken Smell
Jacob’s mansion and the tempting Guava Tree
Which never failed to upset the stones on the roadside and
Glass windows, the poor preys of ours, the Little Devils
“Don’t go”, said Pinkie clasping my hand
Her collapsed fountain of hair
Shimmering in the sun
“Don’t go”, mumbled Moovandan Mango Tree and its Flowers
“Don’t go”, cried the Ottakalan, the One-legged crow
“Don’t go”, shrieked the Baby Squirrel
Shift Shift Shift
From hospital bed to home to another home to
Yet another home finally to six-foot earth
Shift is what makes life
Shifts shifts every time, everywhere
The pale yellow curtains departed,
I closed my swollen eyes
I heard the wind rattle against dead leaves
Silently chanting to me:
“This flux is life and life is in flux.”
