In the New Land
The first time I stepped onto the New Land,
the first time I crossed the oceans
to land in any Western nation,
I was made of Anglo colonial prose,
bits of Sanskrit shlokas my father recited
when explaining something verbose
the burning tropical heat sweating
thousands on the streets, shoving, pulling,
without rancor, with a wink
incessant rain falling hard for three days straight
breaking asphalt, flooding drains
dark patches on buildings waterlime stained
flesh of ripe mango, sapodilla soft succulent
fish market cobblestones wet with scales, skins,
bones among cacophonic bargains
I was walking along the Skukyll expressway
people craning from car windows curious
I did not know nor understand
no one walks on a highway, my friend…
of this beautiful fall morning
leaves turning brown and yellow and red
the cold clean air heavy in apprehension
home always at the back of my head
like an earthing numbing the now to surreal
The first night I buy a packet of burgers
and on biting into a patty taste its rawness
Did I really expect a ready-to-go burger, like
those Archie comics to pop out of this carton?
You see, I came from housemaids who
cooked and cleaned and cleared tables
who were like family, surrogate mothers
except they could not sit on the furniture:
unwritten laws of social encryption
Women here jerk their arms in taut angles
stiffen their fingers into claws when talking
their eyes frank, open, non-judgmental
The Nigerian woman I used to dread
standing on the way on School House lane
explaining Jehovah’s Witness. She was earnest
wearing the same soiled cream coat
with her knotted dusty hair, her dark eyes
insistent, standing there alone waiting
Did I say the first time in any Western nation?
That was a lie when I was five
we lived in England for a time
In school some called me ‘Blackie’
and laughed in almost a good-natured way
made me feel uneasy, not yet upset
some days I didn’t want to meet those boys
again
I was from where a name marked a person,
his place, the measure of his respect
Now the name was a puzzle, sometimes a test
as a map without markings, meaningless
By Children’s Hospital at the parking place
I ran up and down from street to basement
driving cars getting tips, steerings glazed
with hair oil, floor strewn with paper cups,
crumpled wrappers, hair pins
Valets from 7 countries, 4 continents drop
all their baggage behind for to run and hustle
here, second job waiting once this shift is clocked
“When you getting a real job, JB?” asks one
I learnt quickly you need to have wheels
to land a real job or earn a woman’s attention
A Yehudi, lettered in scriptures, revered
turned into someone to be circumspected
A Zulu warrior standing tall, majestic in pictures
turned into one wearing a baseball cap reversed
Bougainvillea, Kadamba, Frangipani gave way
to Wintergreen, Coneflower, Coral Bells, Sage
From days filled with siblings, aunts, cousins
to a loneliness like a silent volcano imploding
from the navel, pushing up softly…
to a freedom pushed open to a widescreen
no questions asked, do you have the money?
And so we learned to live with each other
home loans, PTAs, landscaping lawns
Italian wedding soup, golubtsi so soft,
melting reuben at Jewish Deli on Locust
hot injera soaking up last of kitfo juices
Brooklyn Gurdwara houses 30 families
with all their belongings bundled in
blankets and bags sleeping on the floor
shuttling between two worlds lost
like a meteor hurtling in space searching
*****
God(s)
If you consider God as
the sum of all things left
unexplained,
and as some of the unexplained
retracts
with new understanding and reasoning,
even as new phenomena
arise
that escape logic and expression,
You must have realized
the concept of God …
Changes
and cannot be tied down to
a written Word
or a Time
or a Place
One could be content
with the 33 Asuras and Suras
that represent each
natural phenomena, animal
form or human emotion
And on the wisdom and practice
of ways to assuage
the battles raging within
the sides always changing
To make choices that
do good to more than oneself
and do not impose on the Kafir
with your burden
Question the fallout in
the 11 gods and demons
inside of you taken
to form a Godhead greater than
sum of its parts
Or in trying to unravel
the formlessness of
a Brahma abstract
You may suspect
Prajapati probably lies outside
of any human intellect
And the God in likeness of Man,
the crafted dogma, bias –
Its time has long passed
like a horsewhip
used to fly
an aircraft
Jit Bhattacharya graduated with a Masters degree in Decision Science from Drexel University, Philadelphia. He is a professional Data Scientist with 20 years of experience. He also teaches Statistics, part-time, to Data Science professionals. He is a self-taught musician and plays acoustic guitar; his interest in music includes several genres, incl. jazz, rock, and classical.
His poetry has been published in Muse India, Indus Woman Writing, and Indian Ruminations. He currently resides and works in Kolkata, India.
