[Reader-list] Ezekiel: Background, Casually

[Shivam Vij]

Background, Casually

1

A poet-rascal-clown was born, 
The frightened child who would not eat 
Or sleep, a boy of meager bone. 
He never learned to fly a kite, 
His borrowed top refused to spin.


I went to Roman Catholic school, 
A mugging Jew among the wolves. 
They told me I had killed the Christ, 
That year I won the scripture prize. 
A Muslim sportsman boxed my ears.


I grew in terror of the strong 
But undernourished Hindu lads,
Their prepositions always wrong, 
Repelled me by passivity. 
One noisy day I used a knife.


At home on Friday nights the prayers 
Were said. My morals had declined. 
I heard of Yoga and of Zen. 
Could 1, perhaps, be rabbisaint? 
The more I searched, the less I found.


Twentytwo: time to go abroad.
First, the decision, then a friend
To pay the fare. Philosophy, 
Poverty and Poetry, three 
Companions shared my basement room.


2

The London seasons passed me by.
I lay in bed two years alone,
And then a Woman came to tell
My willing ears I was the Son
Of Man. I knew that I had failed


In everything, a bitter thought. 
So, in an English cargoship 
Taking French guns and mortar shells 
To IndoChina, scrubbed the decks, 
And learned to laugh again at home.


How to feel it home, was the point.
Some reading had been done, but what
Had I observed, except my own
Exasperation? All Hindus are
Like that, my father used to say,


When someone talked too loudly, or 
Knocked at the door like the Devil. 
They hawked and spat. They sprawled around. 
I prepared for the worst. Married, 
Changed jobs, and saw myself a fool.


The song of my experience sung, 
I knew that all was yet to sing. 
My ancestors, among the castes, 
Were aliens crushing seed for bread 
(The hooded bullock made his rounds).


3

One among them fought and taught, 
A Major bearing British arms. 
He told my father sad stories 
Of the Boer War. I dreamed that 
Fierce men had bound my feet and hands.


The later dreams were all of words. 
I did not know that words betray 
But let the poems come, and lost 
That grip on things the worldly prize. 
I would not suffer that again.


I look about me now, and try 
To formulate a plainer view: 
The wise survive and serve--to play 
The fool, to cash in on 
The inner and the outer storms.


The Indian landscape sears my eyes. 
I have become a part of it 
To be observed by foreigners. 
They say that I am singular, 
Their letters overstate the case.


I have made my commitments now. 
This is one: to stay where I am, 
As others choose to give themselves
In some remote and backward place. 
My backward place is where I am.


....................................


1. Bene Israel tradition has it that their ancestors
took to oilpressing soon after arrival in India. Hence
Shanwar teli, Saturday oilpressers, i.e., who did not
work on Saturdays.




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