3
Poetry
In Other News from Kabul
Anukriti Pandey
Much before middle school Geography taught me
Countries and Capitals
in clean alphabetical order
Tagore had sent his Mini to me
Mini and her Kabuliwala.
Mini who was me,
her father's daughter
her mother's pet
Mini who like me
would talk incessantly.
She and I were the same age
and mostly on the same page.
She saw him
that gigantic Pathan
in the bylanes of old Calcutta
selling dryfruits and stories
to the little girl who listened,
to the little girl who read.
That gentle gigantic Pathan
who Mini and I befriended.
There were no bitter almonds in our world.
When they imprisoned the lion-hearted
for being uselessly passionate
Mini cried inconsolably
Or was it me?
Both perhaps. I could never tell beyond a point.
Mini and he had met years later
on the day of her wedding.
The only time I had hated her a little
for not stopping and chatting
with the man who'd come bearing
gifts for a child,
his love heart-breakingly forgetting
all about the intervening time.
When he would look at that tiny imprint
of the tiny palms
of his own daughter
I would wonder why he is so far away from home.
I now know better.
Now I know everything better.
Everything is worse.
I have lost the Kabuliwala
My Kabuliwala, forever.
And Mini is not around to share
my tears either.