Friday, November 1, 2019

SUMITA DUTTA SHOAM



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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