Snehal Vadher \ Winter 2015
for my grandfather, J B Vadher
Once, when three, you had almost drowned
in the village pond. The light of Ankleshwar
must have appeared as though in a pinhole
camera ̶ the convex sky, the crowded market,
gathering around that one distorted, tender
face which kept evading through dense decades
of strife and fulfilment, pettiness and disease,
becoming a dozen streets, a neighbourhood,
in a Bombay where you fathered six children,
watched English films at Opera House, then
took the last train to Borivali. You were
ninety when she plunged her hand in the water
and pulled you out by the hair.
for Partho & Ishani
The peepal leaves are bringing forth
this season’s light in shades of henna.
The roses in the balcony affront
the expanding universe. We face each other,
are two mirrors making a pact of infinity.
The body longs to lean upon the river of another.
The pulse is a man condemned to walk
suburban lanes in the twilight of the heart,
it never learns the right quantity of things
beyond these planks, this woodwork. We are
ilathalam bronze clangour, starlight
beating on the planets, widening arcs of foam
returning, ravished by the search.
Snehal Vadher has studied Comparative Literature and Creative Writing at universities in the UK.
He lives in Bombay, where he teaches creative writing at school level. His poems have previously
appeared in Almost Island, Nether, Coldnoon and nthposition.