SUMITA
DUTTA SHOAM
The Tadpoles
Didn’t See
The surface rippled,
Three pairs of feet
plopped in
And the tadpoles
scurried
To hide in caverns.
Sighs of relief
Brushed over the tiny
rock pool
As cool water
Soothed sore feet.
The tadpoles gambolled
again,
Silence drawing them
out;
They didn’t see the
awestruck faces
Watch the
rain-cloud’s approach.
Feet dashed out of
the pool,
Flashed wet into
shoes,
Humping backpacks
They sprinted down
the hill.
The tadpoles darted
to hide,
They didn’t see
The slanting column
of rain
Join Earth to bulbous
cloud.
When fat droplets
hammered down,
Bullets shredding the
pond,
They shivered with
fright;
They didn’t hear the
girls whoop with delight.
They didn’t see the
girls
Race each other
Leaving behind joyous
laughter
Echoing on the hill
sides.
Sliding on wet rock,
leaping thorny scrub,
Splashing through
churned mud,
The girls scrambled
To outrun rain
approaching head-on.
Hah! Stinging necks,
arms, exposed skin;
Smacking on heads,
walloping clothes,
Running in rivulets
down sun-browned limbs;
The rain swooped in
victorious.
The tadpoles didn’t
see
The girls tear across
a farmer’s fallow field,
Panting giggles lost
in fiercely tattooing rain,
Until brought short
by a broad deep trench.
The tadpoles didn’t
see
The flash flood
roiling down the hilly end
In frothing bubbles
and fuming spume,
Heavy water gushing
to fill the gorge.
The tadpoles didn’t
see
Two girls jump in,
dart across and climb to safety;
They called the third
to hurry,
But she hesitated a
bit too long.
The tadpoles didn’t
see
The third jump in at
last,
The rushing water now
an angry river
Just a few feet away
from swamping her.
The tadpoles didn’t
see
The fear-filled eyes,
Or hear the scream of
the girls safe on the bank:
‘Mahe! Get out of
there!’
The tadpoles didn’t
see
Mahe nimbly climb on
to a root spanning the gully,
And balance limbs
braced apart
As the water gurgled
past inches beneath.
The tadpoles didn’t
see;
Only those girls are
blessed with that memory.
© Sumita Dutta Shoam, July 2015
Death Announced
Her Arrival
Death announced her
arrival.
No silent whispers in
my ears;
No, the clarion call
was loud and clear.
My guts burnt; I
hardly ate but puked.
Doctors bled my
wallet white;
Prescribed pills rent
body and mind.
I’ve taken care to
cook a broth
A thin gruel, no
sugar no salt.
Surely, it would
slide down, stay,
Wake me up to one
more beautiful day,
But there, again over
the sink I sway.
“I’m dying,” I’ve
told my family and friends,
They negate, know not
what to say.
My three sons living
abroad, nod
Over phones, murmur
they’ll visit soon.
Kindness pats my
shoulder, squeezes my hand,
A warm embrace; I
think they care.
But at 2:30 am, when
I contact in despair,
“I’m dying, please
take me to hospital…”
In their best
interest, they cut my call.
My servant, loyal
shadow till the end,
Tows me to a
dignified final farewell.
Eighty-seven years
I’ve walked this Earth
Mind and tongue
sharp, they’ll remember
Me, fiercely
independent.
©Sumita Dutta, November 2016
Tolling Time
He was the handsomest
Once upon a time.
Broad shoulders,
carved biceps;
A high diving gymnast
Twirling thrice in
air
Once upon a time.
His calloused palm
Smoothing my head,
That rare praise,
lost
Amidst skirmishes,
for
A rebellious daughter
Was I.
Face cadaverous he
sleeps
Dentures out, mouth
caved in;
Walker, wheelchair,
under-pads,
Medicines,
knee-brace, shoulder-guard,
The calibrated jar –
his urinal
Populate his room,
awaiting
His attention, as I
once did.
Busy wrapping my
work,
I scan the years –
Once scrambling over
wet rocks
I’d found a
precarious perch
Over a deep
thundering waterfall
And waved in
triumphant response
To my name, his
terrified scream.
I listen for his
hoarse call now,
His embarrassed,
helpless need…
Time has tolled; I’m
his loving mother now,
And he’s my proud
recalcitrant son.
©Sumita Dutta Shoam, February 2017
SUMITA DUTTA SHOAM
SUMITA DUTTA SHOAM enjoys most creative mediums of expressions. She
loves jousting with words—lining them up with cavalry precision for an incisive
attack or gathering them into a bouquet of flaring beauty. Writing has been a
passion from her teens, growing out of her obsession with reading all sorts of
books. She believes that there are three necessities that enrich this world and
her writing is liberally tossed with these ingredients—compassion, beauty, and
humour. Sumita is the Founder of Adisakrit, a publishing house that takes pride
in publishing books in a variety of genres. In the eighteen short months of its
existence, Adisakrit has published historical fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and
plays—from debutant authors to authors with several books under their belt.
Adisakrit has released three books in the few weeks: Svara (A Collection of
Poems) by Gita Bharath, Madras Hues Myriad Views (An Anthology of poetry,
prose, illustrations, and photographs) by IPC Poets, and Five & Other Plays
by Shreekumar Varma. She is multilingual and fluent in English, Hindi, Bengali,
and has learnt rudimentary French. She loves to explore places and cultures,
and has been lucky enough to travel to twenty-two countries across the globe.
She has grabbed opportunities to work in different fields apart from
publishing, designing, and editing, including teaching O and AS level English
in an IGCSE school, and jobs in marketing and PR. All her experiences are
fodder for her writing. Her work can be found on several websites and some of
her poems have been published in print anthologies. The Heart of Donna Rai is
her debut novel.
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