It was a game we played often. Spinning grandfather’s brass globe with our eyes closed, then stopping it with one finger. Whatever country we landed on was ours. And to prove our patriotism, we had to know both the capital and the currency. The brass would warm up to our touch, our little brown fingers smelling of copper and zinc. We loved sniffing the world on our fingers, like Vasco da Gama must have after first holding cloves and black pepper. We memorized countries and capitals like multiplication tables. The capital of Sierra Leone is Freetown. The capital of Madagascar is Antananarivo, formerly Tananarive. Whenever we played who knew the most capitals, I always lost. But I didn’t care. It was the music in the names that mattered, not the names themselves.
.i.
An old man with a rainbow beard
dancing round a Banyan tree
sings a ditty over
a hundred years old
ekla chalo re
walk alone, walk alone
And he has travelled
four corners
of the globe
wrapping Mercator lines
like a ball of yarn
leaving crumbs
like Hansel and Gretel
not knowing hungry
birds would swoop
down
You know the old
man is lost
and lying
because there are
no corners in a circle
and when you ask him
which place he likes best
he replies
everywhere
nowhere
Then he winks and says
you know you’ve arrived
if you get the joke
in localese
otherwise
the joke’s on
you
.ii.
I am the map
I am the cartographer
no sextant
no compass
only eyes
ears and tongue
let us go out
into the night
pick your choice
of moonlight
dim crescent
or full monty
And the pumpkin becomes
an autorickshaw
bicycle
scooter
two feet
the BMW
is in the shop
so wear comfortable
shoes
and if you lose one
feel the ache
of the ground
beneath your feet
the burden she
carries
so much larger
than your own
the city’s ear
always cocked
towards
footfall
.iii.
You, little girl, holding
grandmother’s hand
in a plane angling Eastwards
chasing an arm stretch of
morning sun
towards home
Clouds strewn about
Cumulus: thick, pliable cotton balls
grandmother rolls
between her palms
making wicks
Stratus: taut against the sky
a silk scarf
Cirrus: scattered lines
the ribs of animals
You jump into them
and float away
tear off a piece
and feel it melt
sugar
on the middle of
your tongue
It is always that first plane ride you remember, sitting next to Grandmother, your first glimpse of the world from above, staring at the clouds, assigning them animals’ bodies. The earth below a patchwork quilt, asymmetrical squares, joined at the seams by God’s fingers, algae green, mustard field yellow, draught brown.
.iv.
Prepare to become a morphologist
tracing the curves of continents
yes, there are more than one
in your destiny
play peek-a-boo with cultures
and accents
play Simon Says
for Simon says you were born in one place
then Simon says you are citizen of another
now make the world your home
oops, the world isn’t your home
Simon didn’t say Simon says
.v.
Can you hear it?
The gurgling of
rivers
and confluence too
an ocean of voices
Uchal joldhi tiranga
.vi.
All roads
once led to Rome
and centuries later
at the coliseum
you look for specks
of blood
in its stone walls
proof of life and lust
before your time
In spiritu et veritate
you smell the dust
from chariots
hear the cry of
gladiators
50,000 strong
cheering
jeering
Roads of cobblestone
laid by bare hands
chapel ceilings
with neon graffiti
cherubic faces
screaming
God was here
One blink, like a Jinn
and you are at
Dharamsala
prayer flags
in primary colors
fluttering mantras
and pleas
specks of blood
spell ‘Free Tibet’
shaved heads
and sandaled feet
shuffle quietly
on mountain paths
hands grazing
prayer wheels
Om Mani Padme Hum
No graffiti here
only open air
and the hem of
hope
waiting to be
lifted
.vii.
Take the first right
go 2 km, past
the big Banyan tree
then follow
the dirt road
with a bend
like
a camel’s hump.
After you pass
the little roadside
shrine
dedicated to
the monkey God
Hanuman
take the second
left, past the dried up
well. It’s the blue
house
in the middle
with a red door.
Watch your neck
the door is low
intentionally-
architecture
inculcating humility
.viii.
Inspired
by the human form
arches curved like
a woman’s back
spires spawned
from bosoms
windows
kohl lined eyes
Come build me
she says
take clods of
red earth
soaked with rain
yank the lotus
from the lake
and decorate
her face
sprinkle snow
from frosted mountains
to redden lips and cheeks
rub ash from forest fires
shading the skin
a hundred
different hues
until she billows
out into
north
south
east
west
.ix.
Close your eyes and spin the globe,
rub your tummy, pull your lobe,
lay your finger on a spot,
feel the metal get all hot
Andalusia, Argentina, Africa, Siam,
sphere of metal, orb of gold,
reveal to me thy land
~ Shikha Malaviya
Shikha Malaviya is a poet, writer and teacher. She is founder of The (Great) Indian Poetry Project, an online archive of Modern Indian Poetry currently under development, as well as The Great Indian Poetry Collective, a specialized literary press. She also founded Monsoon Magazine, one of the first South Asian literary magazines on the web. Her full-length collection, ‘Geography of Tongues’, is forthcoming later this year.