Geography of Tongues

It was a game we played often. Spinning grandfather’s brass globe with our eyes closed, then stopping it with one finger. Whatever country we landed on was ours. And to prove our patriotism, we had to know both the capital and the currency. The brass would warm up to our touch, our little brown fingers smelling of copper and zinc. We loved sniffing the world on our fingers, like Vasco da Gama must have after first holding cloves and black pepper. We memorized countries and capitals like multiplication tables. The capital of Sierra Leone is Freetown. The capital of Madagascar is Antananarivo, formerly Tananarive. Whenever we played who knew the most capitals, I always lost. But I didn’t care. It was the music in the names that mattered, not the names themselves.

 

.i.

An old man with a rainbow beard

dancing round a Banyan tree

sings a ditty over

a hundred years old

ekla chalo re

walk alone, walk alone

 

And he has travelled

four corners

of the globe

wrapping Mercator lines

like a ball of yarn

leaving crumbs

like Hansel and Gretel

not knowing hungry

birds would swoop

down

 

You know the old

man is lost

and lying

because there are

no corners in a circle

and when you ask him

which place he likes best

he replies

everywhere

nowhere

 

Then he winks and says

you know you’ve arrived

if you get the joke

in localese

otherwise

the joke’s on

you

 

 

.ii.

I am the map

I am the cartographer

 

no sextant

no compass

only eyes

ears and tongue

let us go out

into the night

pick your choice

of moonlight

dim crescent

or full monty

 

And the pumpkin becomes

an autorickshaw

bicycle

scooter

two feet

the BMW

is in the shop

so wear comfortable

shoes

and if you lose one

feel the ache

of the ground

beneath your feet

the burden she

carries

so much larger

than your own

 

the city’s ear

always cocked

towards

footfall

 

 

.iii.

You, little girl, holding

grandmother’s hand

in a plane angling Eastwards

chasing an arm stretch of

morning sun

towards home

 

Clouds strewn about

Cumulus: thick, pliable cotton balls

grandmother rolls

between her palms

making wicks

Stratus: taut against the sky

a silk scarf

Cirrus: scattered lines

the ribs of animals

 

You jump into them

and float away

tear off a piece

and feel it melt

sugar

on the middle of

your tongue

 

It is always that first plane ride you remember, sitting next to Grandmother, your first glimpse of the world from above, staring at the clouds, assigning them animals’ bodies. The earth below a patchwork quilt, asymmetrical squares, joined at the seams by God’s fingers, algae green, mustard field yellow, draught brown.

 

 

.iv.

Prepare to become a morphologist

tracing the curves of continents

yes, there are more than one

in your destiny

play peek-a-boo with cultures

and accents

play Simon Says

for Simon says you were born in one place

then Simon says you are citizen of another

now make the world your home

oops, the world isn’t your home

Simon didn’t say Simon says

 

 

.v.

Can you hear it?

The gurgling of

rivers

and confluence too

an ocean of voices

Uchal joldhi tiranga

 

 

.vi.

All roads

once led to Rome

and centuries later

at the coliseum

you look for specks

of blood

in its stone walls

proof of life and lust

before your time

In spiritu et veritate

you smell the dust

from chariots

hear the cry of

gladiators

50,000 strong

cheering

jeering

 

Roads of cobblestone

laid by bare hands

chapel ceilings

with neon graffiti

cherubic faces

screaming

God was here

 

One blink, like a Jinn

and you are at

Dharamsala

prayer flags

in primary colors

fluttering mantras

and pleas

specks of blood

spell ‘Free Tibet’

shaved heads

and sandaled feet

shuffle quietly

on mountain paths

hands grazing

prayer wheels

Om Mani Padme Hum

 

No graffiti here

only open air

and the hem of

hope

waiting to be

lifted

 

 

.vii.

Take the first right

go 2 km, past

the big Banyan tree

then follow

the dirt road

with a bend

like

a camel’s hump.

After you pass

the little roadside

shrine

dedicated to

the monkey God

Hanuman

take the second

left, past the dried up

well. It’s the blue

house

in the middle

with a red door.

Watch your neck

the door is low

intentionally-

architecture

inculcating humility

 

 

.viii.

Inspired

by the human form

arches curved like

a woman’s back

spires spawned

from bosoms

windows

kohl lined eyes

 

Come build me

she says

take clods of

red earth

soaked with rain

yank the lotus

from the lake

and decorate

her face

sprinkle snow

from frosted mountains

to redden lips and cheeks

rub ash from forest fires

shading the skin

a hundred

different hues

until she billows

out into

north

south

east

west

 

 

.ix.

Close your eyes and spin the globe,

rub your tummy, pull your lobe,

lay your finger on a spot,

feel the metal get all hot

Andalusia, Argentina, Africa, Siam,

sphere of metal, orb of gold,

reveal to me thy land

~ Shikha Malaviya

 

Shikha Malaviya is a poet, writer and teacher. She is founder of The (Great) Indian Poetry Project, an online archive of Modern Indian Poetry currently under development, as well as The Great Indian Poetry Collective, a specialized literary press.  She also founded Monsoon Magazine, one of the first South Asian literary magazines on the web. Her full-length collection, ‘Geography of Tongues’, is forthcoming later this year.