Yuyutsu Sharma's new poem, "The Apparition" from Upcoming collection, God's Messy Workplace: The 2020 Poems

 

The Apparition

For my son, Yugank

 

Photo by Ravi Manandhar

So much hand washing, son,

scrubbing sanitizers with the fervor

of pouring sacred waters 

with such fanatic frenzy

that an elephant’s wrinkled face

starts surfacing along the jagged crusts of my pores.

 

Holding back the breath

in terror to keep the invisible enemy away,

piled-up fill of surgical masks in the trash-cans

of my trance, pyramids of gloom rising

in the  blind vaults of this world

where I’ve turned into an apparition.

 

Here on the edge of the earth

standing next to the fractured glaciers

ready to explode any moment,

from the valleys of muted deities,

I can only speak through you,

I cannot touch you, feel your breath,

tousle your hair, or smell sweet odor

of your handsome head.

 

Being so far away from you,

and much to your annoyance,

over and over again eager

to return to my instructions —

fear everything around you,

keep a safe distance, don’t be complacent,

fear door knobs, street vendors from Preer Vihar, Laxmi Nagar, Khureji,

milkmen from the capital’s bordering villages,

tin foods you bring from Khurana Store,

groceries you unpack along the rumors,

carry a portable hand sanitizer,

let it dangle from your waist like a weapon in a battlefield.

 

These quick words of caution,

ash-smeared antics from the swirl

of my years on this earth,

these mantras that my Grandpa gave me

foreseeing the calamity decades ago,

the lessons I received in the 60s,

four decades after the First Pandemic.

“Come home,” he’d said, “wash your hands

and feet at the water pump in the courtyard,

clean your mouth with fresh water,

chew a herbal twig to freshen it;

your breath might get polluted from others in public spaces.”

 

I didn’t quite understand his words--

how could anyone get polluted in public places,

didn’t notice anything nasty in our quiet Punjabi town,

airs cool and crisp, skies azure blue

in the land of bluest rivers in the world.

 

I didn’t approve of his rigorous rituals

when he made me wash my hands thrice

with ash from our hearth.

“It’s pure gold,” he said, “ash,

nothing purer than ash.”

His white starched turban

stiff over his head, his gruff gurgle;

I saw his Adam’s apple dilate,

a little bird of wisdom trapped in his throat.

 

In our Messenger chats, son,

I notice your hair have grown long,

covering your forehead.

In your voice messages,

I see an anxiety pouring in

from the rouge metropolis,

Last night, I dreamt a tiny ball

of dirt roll out of your left ear,

and you cried out in pain,

my little prince trapped

in a fort of filth.

 

I hope you remember your Papa,

like I remember my Grandpa today,

someone who loved me,

with a heart purer than his gold ash.

 

I see you all alone in the apartment, 

your video games that took you away from me,

now you dream to see the real world,

tangible people, busy parks,

ports squawking from seagulls,

snow ranges, mule paths littered

with spring flowers and million butterflies.

 

But locked down here,

I am only an apparition in Kathmandu,

not a valid figure of flesh and sturdy bones.

My blood cannot throb to warm your anxious sleep,

I cannot touch you or reach out to you,

being miles away from you.

I cannot take you to Connaught Place,

to your favorite cafes, or bring you to the bustle

of your favorite Squares at Nehru Place,

Karol Bag, Chandani Chowk, Janpath. 

Or bring you back to the Himalayas,

to our luxuriant canyons to make you race around

the glaciers, to sweeten your breath in our dreams

from the forests of rhododendrons, making you

sing along the chorus of summer cicadas

to fill your youthful vessel

with the quiet sheen of our eternal snow.

 

From Upcoming book, God's Messy Workplace: The 2020 Poems