to fall into that same oblivion

with nothing.

As if it was nothing.

Visiting My Parents in Summer

It seems they have always been here —

these crows outside the window,

whom I cannot see, but hear.

It seems they have been making their noise

for such a long time I can no longer remember

what it was like before.

Perhaps it was summer

and there were leaves on the ground

from trees silently dying.

Perhaps it is still summer

and all you are doing is listening

to your life pass by

in a single afternoon.

Here is your childhood room.

Here are the distances between sleeps.

And here are the crows outside the window

singing their harsh song, glistening.

Love Poem Disguised as an Elegy

When I see you these days

you are always at a party,

standing by a window, alone,

growing younger and younger.

Heaven’s great, you say.

You and Saddam are pals,

and from this distance,

everything is forgiven.

Do you remember when…

But never mind.

It’s always that last picture:

you propped up in bed,

your legs slightly raised,

the smell of piss,

purple sores,

a rebel body in disrepair.

Hush, you say, I have to go,

but remember, the heart

isn’t a muscle, it isn’t even a thing

that beats. It’s what you love.

It’s what you’re doing today.

There’ll be a time you grow

so young you won’t know me,

and this is terrifying

because I still have things to ask

about the body and dying

and where memories go to live.

Just once, I’d like to see you

with the flower girls

back at the gate.

It wouldn’t matter then,

if nothing like you

ever happened to me again.

It would have been enough

to have seen you change

into something small and golden,

charging off into the waves

on your strong, white legs.

What need would there be

to speak of danger,

after you were gone, vanished,

like a dream into the day.

for Chandralekha, who died on 30 December 2006, the same day that Saddam Hussein was executed, also the auspicious Hindu day of Vaikuntha Ekadashi, when the gates of heaven are supposedly open to all

After the Dance

i.m. Chandralekha (1928–2006)

After the dance I imagine you

resurrected into this uncertain world.

It is midnight and the moon hovers

close to the trees, who are your daughters

and sons, planted in this desert

so many moons ago. After the dance

the audience drifts like dinner guests,

drowsy and replete. Those who knew you,

who are still filled with astonishment,

stand at the gate and say, She was everywhere.

Only later, when the theatre empties

and morning creeps into the dark,

when something of the day’s vituperous

heat makes its way down from the stars,

do I see you sitting in your favourite chair,

batting flies off your lips,

smoothening down your silver hair.

About the Author

Tishani Doshi was born in Madras, India, in 1975. She received her masters in writing from Johns Hopkins University and worked in London in advertising before returning to India in 2001. At the age of twenty-six, an encounter with the legendary choreographer Chandralekha led her to an unexpected career in dance. In 2006, her book of poems Countries of the Body won the Forward Poetry Prize for best first collection in the UK. She is also the recipient of an Eric Gregory Award for poetry and winner of the All-India Poetry Competition. Her first novel, The Pleasure Seekers, was published to critical acclaim in 2010 and has been translated into several languages. It was long-listed for the Orange Prize and the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and short-listed for the Hindu Literary Prize. Doshi now divides her time between a village by the sea in South India, and elsewhere.