Vikram Masson
Ganesh At the Yard Sale
And there he is, right hand held up in blessing,
perched atop a crate of LPs, next to a stack
of tiki torches and dad’s petunia spritzers,
his brass body streaked with dust. A patina
shadows his eyes and trunk, as if he’s aged.
O remover of obstacles, lord of the intellect,
how could I have forgotten you?
I used to bathe you in milk, circle you with incense
and dress you in swatches of fiery red silk,
just as my grandmother taught.
How could my brother have set you here?
You may have become a curio in some
tarot reader’s cabinet—your belly rubbed
like a laughing buddha, one dollar a wish.
As a little girl, I prayed to you with my forehead
pressed to your feet. I prayed so that the stars
would not fall from the sky; prayed before every
exam; prayed after my first kiss. When my
mother’s eyebrows fell out, I asked only
that you take away her pain.
I used to dread my friends saying, Wow,
you worship elephants, when they visited.
I am sorry for that. I loved that I could see you,
my pot-bellied protector, unlike some
abstraction, an absent daddy-in-the-sky.
In college I forgot about you while learning how
to deconstruct religion into power relations.
And since then, in a world of mindless work,
of drunken Sunday brunches, of regretted
nights with men I could not respect, I’ve shushed
any impulse that would evoke you.
I lift you and feel the warmth of a girl’s
accumulated prayers. Now that my
parents are gone and the artifacts of
our lives sold and scattered for good,
I will take you, little lord, with me.
Instructions for My Funeral
When I die, do not bring that fat priest –
what peace will his Sanskrit droning bring?
Instead, fill my house with music--
Meera’s bhajans especially.
This is the music that banished my fears,
the music I sang when my mother left this world.
As is custom, let my sisters prepare
my favorite foods for the birds.
My purple finches will plunge their beaks
into tiffins of kheer and ras malai
and tangle their feet in semolina.
On the day of the funeral, deck me
in my parrot green saree, splashed with indigo,
and the diamond nose ring I discarded
for breathing tubes. Then daub me with lipstick
and rouge my skin. I must look as radiant
as the flames I will enter.
This is how I want my grandchildren to remember me.
Do you remember the first time you came to my father’s house
on the pretext of returning a forgotten textbook?
You smelled of earth, sweat and monsoon rain.
The hibiscus had erupted in the yard
and haloed your shadowed face,
I wanted to pluck your soaked kurta
from your heaving chest.
My father reluctantly let you enter
and you have never left.
You will feel lightened, but do not feel guilt.
I have been grateful during these lifeless days
as you strained to lift my body, my flesh swollen with edema,
as you listened to the ghostly huff and tick
of the dialysis machine, and read
to me when I pushed away my books.
My body pulsed with such pain that I grew to loathe it,
and I know this made you weep.
When they bring my ashes, keep just two thimbles.
Scatter one into Portsmouth harbor when shafts
of sunlight awaken its waters. Do you remember
when we first came to New Hampshire?
Our neighbors had never seen people like us before
and stared as if we were ancient wanderers from Babylon.
They were so cautious when they spoke to us!
We fell in love with this place because of its music –
the raga of the finch’s cry,
and the percussion of apples
thudding against the earth.
Take the second thimble with you when you next go to India.
Go to the Musi River at the border of the city.
I know the river withers with pollution
but I shall not be sullied.
Scatter the ashes in the moonlight
and have our son mark the spot.
If there is anything after this world,
I will meet you there.
Ganesh At the Yard Sale
And there he is, right hand held up in blessing,
perched atop a crate of LPs, next to a stack
of tiki torches and dad’s petunia spritzers,
his brass body streaked with dust. A patina
shadows his eyes and trunk, as if he’s aged.
O remover of obstacles, lord of the intellect,
how could I have forgotten you?
I used to bathe you in milk, circle you with incense
and dress you in swatches of fiery red silk,
just as my grandmother taught.
How could my brother have set you here?
You may have become a curio in some
tarot reader’s cabinet—your belly rubbed
like a laughing buddha, one dollar a wish.
As a little girl, I prayed to you with my forehead
pressed to your feet. I prayed so that the stars
would not fall from the sky; prayed before every
exam; prayed after my first kiss. When my
mother’s eyebrows fell out, I asked only
that you take away her pain.
I used to dread my friends saying, Wow,
you worship elephants, when they visited.
I am sorry for that. I loved that I could see you,
my pot-bellied protector, unlike some
abstraction, an absent daddy-in-the-sky.
In college I forgot about you while learning how
to deconstruct religion into power relations.
And since then, in a world of mindless work,
of drunken Sunday brunches, of regretted
nights with men I could not respect, I’ve shushed
any impulse that would evoke you.
I lift you and feel the warmth of a girl’s
accumulated prayers. Now that my
parents are gone and the artifacts of
our lives sold and scattered for good,
I will take you, little lord, with me.
Instructions for My Funeral
When I die, do not bring that fat priest –
what peace will his Sanskrit droning bring?
Instead, fill my house with music--
Meera’s bhajans especially.
This is the music that banished my fears,
the music I sang when my mother left this world.
As is custom, let my sisters prepare
my favorite foods for the birds.
My purple finches will plunge their beaks
into tiffins of kheer and ras malai
and tangle their feet in semolina.
On the day of the funeral, deck me
in my parrot green saree, splashed with indigo,
and the diamond nose ring I discarded
for breathing tubes. Then daub me with lipstick
and rouge my skin. I must look as radiant
as the flames I will enter.
This is how I want my grandchildren to remember me.
Do you remember the first time you came to my father’s house
on the pretext of returning a forgotten textbook?
You smelled of earth, sweat and monsoon rain.
The hibiscus had erupted in the yard
and haloed your shadowed face,
I wanted to pluck your soaked kurta
from your heaving chest.
My father reluctantly let you enter
and you have never left.
You will feel lightened, but do not feel guilt.
I have been grateful during these lifeless days
as you strained to lift my body, my flesh swollen with edema,
as you listened to the ghostly huff and tick
of the dialysis machine, and read
to me when I pushed away my books.
My body pulsed with such pain that I grew to loathe it,
and I know this made you weep.
When they bring my ashes, keep just two thimbles.
Scatter one into Portsmouth harbor when shafts
of sunlight awaken its waters. Do you remember
when we first came to New Hampshire?
Our neighbors had never seen people like us before
and stared as if we were ancient wanderers from Babylon.
They were so cautious when they spoke to us!
We fell in love with this place because of its music –
the raga of the finch’s cry,
and the percussion of apples
thudding against the earth.
Take the second thimble with you when you next go to India.
Go to the Musi River at the border of the city.
I know the river withers with pollution
but I shall not be sullied.
Scatter the ashes in the moonlight
and have our son mark the spot.
If there is anything after this world,
I will meet you there.
Vikram Masson is a lawyer by training who lives in Richmond, Virginia. His poetry has been most recently featured in the Amethyst Review and the Allegro Poetry Journal, and is forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry.