Paddy Fields, Pumpkin Flowers and an Exiled Childhood

Reminiscence of an obscure dark panacea, in fact that’s confined
May be a chunk or façade of the dream still clinquants like an oasis
Her grandpa then grandma none she could see
She hardly recalls, where exactly from she learnt
Twinkle, twinkle little star…how I wonder what you are
Desire is the cause of sorrow, the Buddha said, why should she care about?
Does it matter to Asia, she desires, hankers and longs, and that’s genuine
But surely somewhere there in between her childhood lies.

A patch of sky down, life thinly lollygagged, a weaver bird yet dares the storms
Her fate deserted her like the Buddha did to his wife
Puddles of ecstasy, long jump and high jump and kabbadi and the eucalyptus jungle
It’s not a 4G era, her lonely friend a few dog-eared books, a tattered school bag
And a Panasonic transistor would bring the good tiding every day
Sometimes she’d go berserk and the broken kite would get puzzled
There in the armpit of the mango coppice.

Laughter and the joy of Lebanon, downward little murkiness, who cares!
Where can Asia retrace those post cards, inland letters? The flavours of her instinct
Govt. Odia Medium School and its substandard pedagogy
Those bald unproductive Paramanand and Biswanath masters were Asia’s headache
Fiery buffalos gazed from the windows’ of classrooms. She rushed to the past.

Boxes of toffees, patisseries and sachet of fun in the festivities were yet aloof
The trail of acridness here and there didn’t change her to be a human
The smell of the pregnant paddy fields and pumpkin flowers electrified Asia
Her childhood, the past not extinct, got exiled there just as a blue lagoon.



There’s a tender spring in pink, hobnobs
Touch, feel, and sense the blondes in the vestibule
Hard, soft and eclectic thirst haphazardly wafts
Adolescent life-size desires masquerade in the busy squares
In a glass of stirred up sepia brown wine, tickling ripples
You can have a deep sip in peace
Try the size; touch the contours and wear the brink of softness.

A plateau spills over with translucent hues
Breathe the essence, and slash the glassy dandelions
Measure the bulging double excel torso
Fibrous choco, may be vanilla-lashed titillation
If you want to be enticed, may be, you have a reason.

Flowery lingerie in chartreuse maroon and cream illusions
Those bikinis are startled periwinkles
Or may be a few pieces of Italian cake, your anniversary special
Your test bud is adulterated hopelessly.

Mannequins on the street markets
And you ubiquitously share a lot of commonness
Sip a lot of icy coffee, bite on hot pizzas or patisseries
Attend symposiums on costume architecture
Pretty saccharine of the length, width, parameters
The elasticity colours, look, layout and design
Permanently invading
You giggle in unison and say how sportive they are
I say, aren’t they handy for any acrobatics?



Your backyard wears a lone painting of acrylic
A few pieces of medieval ghazals
The lilies ooze deluge of love morphine
Picasso’s brushes, jam-packed with incarnadined hues
The Mediterranean Sea nauseates in pensive ambiguity
Since how long have you been quarantined?

Your make up box blooms the beauty of the seventh season
Rains take a few pegs of translucent tequila
That’s a flimsy grotesque; you left that night with no treaty
Thenceforth the park, the street corners’ coffee café
The nearest Malaysian massage parlour, all crawl with pain.

A surrogated river revives from a brief death
A little cathartic infatuation, heinously termite-bitten
A long life-size reverie through an absent hiatus
In the secret drawer where all those snippets
Those specially twisted laughter yawns
I am heaping all my sins there, that can be safely locked.

In your absence here I walk like a monk
In the lush pink bungalows, clubs, inns and bars
Sizzling peace talks with the my sweet enemies
Repentance the aftermath
You say peace a sick mind’s attitude; a new season foliates
Yet, beauty plus vertiginous callousness
It’s hypocritical here; yes even the spring isn’t mild.
I tried to stop the time it carries my coffin now.


Pitambar Naik

Pitambar Naik

Pitambar Naik was born and raised in Odisha, India. He is an advertising copywriter to earn a living; and writes poetry, fiction, non-fiction and reviews books in English. He has been featured in journals such as Brown Critique, Spark Magazine, CLRI, Indian Review, Indian Ruminations, Galaxy-IMRJ, HEArt Online, Occulum, Tuck Magazine, Indian Periodical, Hans India, Phenomenal Magazine, The New Indian Express, Metaphor, Bhashabandhan Review, Dissident Voice among others.