The Love Song of J. Sadhana Prakash

Here is an ode to lost romance, in the time of busy kitchens, offices, and homes. The title is borrowed from Eliot’s poem The Love Song Of  J. Alfred Prufrock.

           The Love Song of J. Sadhana Prakash

 

Chapatis, onions, potatoes and salt

Know no halt.

 

In her tired musings

Sad Sadhana sought her spouse

In that never-never land,

In high green grass

Trailing billowing silks,

She beckons,

Leads and follows

In turns.

In the led life

An arena had become the house,

Not a moment to relax,

That reminds her

She has to prepare the details of income tax

 

Office, chapaties , onions, potatoes and salt know no halt.

 

It’s six o’ clock.

Hurry, hurry

Tiffins to pack,

Kids to send to school,

House to lock,

The maid hasn’t come.

In the bus she hopes for a seat

To rest her already tired feet.

 

Office, chapaties , onions, potatoes and salt know no halt.

 

It’s six o’clock.

Hurry, hurry

Dinner to cook,

Homework to supervise,

The furniture to be dusted,

The sweet-nothings had become rusted

Long out of use.

She tried her best

But civil wars always bust the bubble

Leaving behind the forlorn rubble.

 

Office, chapaties , onions, potatoes and salt know no halt.

 

Cold shoulders

Gradually turned the bed cold.

The constant worry –

I hope I haven’t forgotten the pill –

Otherwise,

I’ll have to face the abortionist’s scalpel,

Turn the weakly dose

All the more chilled

Once, the plan for ‘our two’ was fulfilled.

What a hassle it was

Planning pregnancy

Getting leave and a bed in hospital

The round of ‘ayahs’ and crèches

Had become nightmarish.

 

Office, chapaties, onions, potatoes and salt, know no halt

 

With the changed social role

Sadhana resents she was born a female

And he  a male.

The children to bear

To rear,

The house to run,

Money to earn

Force her to ask the overwhelming question –

Is it worth it – this all?

Will there ever be a time

When she will bid goodbye

To her dreams, indecisions?

Putting on a brave face,

Smiling,

But who won’t, can’t forgo a chance

To throw a lance

At him.

(Perhaps, a resultant of her tensions?)

And the emotion

To which the spring, the air, the very season contributes,

Eludes them.

They have almost forgotten the first flush.

Hurled accusations, a sense of being cheated remain.

 

In the never-never land

In high green grass

Trailing billowing silks

She beckons

Leads and follows

In turn.

 

Office, chapaties , onions, potatoes and salt know no halt.

 Pic credit: Picturepurrfect (Used under a CC license)

 

Comments