for Caatu

The first things I collected were stones. Pebbles down in the gullies through Which runoff sluiced after rains, At the edges of unsealed streets Of my childhood. Then in the wilderness Of school - if one has to have an Eden Before one falls, this satisfies my claim – I foraged in the bush for crystal, for quartz Tetrahedrons, for rocks veined with mica, Which when rubbed on one’s cheeks Made them glitter like butterfly wings.

I was obsessed with sand, with clay too. In the construction lots of a still unbuilt Concrete jungle, I shaped castles. I threw Bridges of matchstick and thread across Deep gorges of imaginary rivers. I learnt The uses of solitude and metaphor, i.e., Letting one thing stand for another as I Let fire ants stand for massing Nazis And festive firecrackers for bombs with Girly names – Daisy, Rose or such like. When and how did I become a pacifist?

To mimic progress I turned to hunting. The first victims of course were shiny Emblems of the kingdom of air: butterflies. In spring, after rains, in fields of wildflowers A mob of schoolboys trapped them with Writing pads, and carried the treasure home In pencil boxes, lunch boxes, fingers overlaid With pigments. There were also pig hunts – A local goon reared his pigs among our houses, And we took revenge by riddling them with Arrows – bamboo splits tipped with thorns.

There was also a stage of gathering. What did I gather? Velvet bugs in green wet grass, red And soft buttons, mobile on my white school shirt. Once a baby field mouse in a shoebox – Mother Wouldn’t allow me to keep it, as she didn’t allow Stray puppies with doleful eyes for more than a day. Too much work she said, and too much pain When they die, remembering her childhood deaths. Then raids for fruits: almonds that one had to crack With a substantial rock to get at the edible core. Also buds From gulmohars for squirt guns that spat sap and molten fire.

As I tell my sister this, she tells me I was a strange kid Who could be found under the trees of our backyard, Fingers caked with mud, muttering to myself audibly, At whom the neighbors looked upon kindly, with mirth, And that I am yet to cease my foolishness for pebbles, For shiny feathers, for shells, for stray pieces of wood, For dry leaves pressed between pages of old books, For anti-social tendencies that might leave me stranded, Bereft of adult friends, of lovers, of wives – an idiot child!