Borderland

For Mr. Moolchand Jain the Borderland begins two streets after his,
where narrow alleyways are filled with two-wheelers,
children play with marbles
and spices are left out to dry
in the tiny space between the gates and entrance doors of homes.


For Mrs. Sudhakar the Borderland begins from Mr. Moolchand Jain’s street,
‘full of those one-storey small-time shop owner’s homes’ she says,
and shudders in horror at the thought of living there.
She’s on a long phone call with her daughter in the USA
her mind drifts from the conversation to the silk curtains that need to be changed.


From his 14th-floor living room, Mr. Jacob can see where his gated community ends
and the Borderland begins.
He shows off his view of a manicured park: rows of palm trees, and of the swimming pool.
‘Something must be done about that eyesore’, he says pointing, his face wrinkling,
to the land beyond the Borderland.


Every morning, groups of women walk from the land beyond the Borderland,
bright sarees, flowers in their hair, anklets and bangles tinkling.
Their pace is brisk, conversations quick, about landlords, employers and truant husbands.
They walk into the land beyond the Borderland, Mr. Jacob’s land, Mrs. Sudhakar’s land
take the service lift, the kitchen entrance, the backdoor into homes so unlike their own.


Along the Borderland, the road has been dug, piles of rubble on each side
clog up traffic, peak hour tempers run and for once pedestrians have only mud
to navigate and fight, not two-wheelers.
(As the Maulvi calls the Maghrib prayer, causing Mr. Subramaniam to spill his coffee)
the women walk back, cross the Borderland, limp flowers dangling from their hair.

Mrs. Sharma

Every morning Mrs Sharma tries to drown out the call to prayer
by Maulvi Azeem Ali.
She turns the knob of the mixie to full
her hands vibrate as she holds the lid closed.
Even now, after years,
she doesn't know how long the prayer runs.


So her mixie whirls, till Mr. Sharma asks
if a man can get coffee in this house.
He has to tap her shoulder and gesticulate.
‘Can’t you ask your friend, Mr Abbas,
to talk to this maulvi
at least he can reduce the volume
who wants to hear his cranky old voice?’.
‘Every morning I am disturbed. Somehow I can tolerate it in the
afternoon and evening, but morning is too much,’ she grumbles.


Mr. Sharma drinks his coffee and reads the paper.
’Fourteen people die in anti-CAA protests in Delhi,' he announces
to no one in particular.
With one last slurp from the coffee mug
He gets up and walks towards his charging cell-phone,
scrolls through family whatsapp groups,
announces that Smriti is still dating that christian boy
(my poor sister, having to cope with her heart-patient husband and a troublesome daughter),
leaving Mrs. Sharma feeling annoyed at these two men.
Maulvi for the disturbance and Mr. Sharma for ignoring her troubles.