People think me odd because
I like to sit in corners
where no one can speak
and laugh to myself;
But what do people know?
If they cared to look,
they might see that I have shelves
full of jars in my head,
every glass jar filled to the brim
shaking soft and shimmering
with the lustre of someone's laughter.
My touch must be soft for
the glass is brittle
and their contents rare,
what is inside is the very best of people
I've met on my way and kept safe inside;
It must not spill.
I must choose wisely
for there are all kinds here
on the glittering shelves,
I check every jar
tasting till I find
one that is made just for this day;
A sip is all it takes
to make the day grow better
and bury all the ugly parts.
There is one from a granny
like a gentle rumble
that smells like cotton starched
and makes the jar wobble
like her soft belly did;
One from my mother
for when mischief calls
bubbling with joy;
and one from my father
soft and sibilant,
specially kept for the worst of jokes.
Do you see this jar filled
with golden warmth?
That's my wife when her
tummy is full;
Then there are these with a rosy tint
they come with a hug
from my siblings
when we meet.
There is a rack full of jars
with green and gold and yellow swirls,
full of sparks flying here and there;
some are from kids
and the rest from dogs,
running with the wind
on the open grass.
This one is blue like the ink in my pen
and it smells of night,
it is from those that dare
to laugh in the face
of fear and grief.
There are those with the scent of earth
muddy brown and ruddy faced,
made from the simple heart
of innocent souls.
Do you smell summer
and feel the yellow glow
of men and women
who can't help but laugh
at the smallest things?
These are the shelves
that I like best
for here is where
I keep my friends;
This jar here has the scent of a feast
and it never is full
like the boy who just ate it all;
This one sounds like a thunderclap
and a jingle of bells;
There is one from a girl I know
like a macaw's wing flying free
croaking, cackling
and spilling from the sides;
this one's light
is soft and muted and difficult to pour
like her when she stands
with both feet together.
Another has a purple sheen,
the colour of dreams
and luxury stays;
and there are those
plain as snow,
a single tune for every song;
some are murky
for they are made from
plastic and cement;
some so dim
for they hide their mouths;
I like those that
burn with magic
and come at just the right time;
Some are red and hot
with sweat and blood
from contests won;
some are black and speckled white
from those whose eyes
are tightly shut
and all that is bright are their teeth;
some are like gurgles
and some like chortles,
some are like whispers
and some just shake
without a sound;
Then there is mine
all on its own and nearly out,
I've been told it’s a rare thing
a sudden flash peeking
through a curly beard,
like morning in a forest world;
I have not seen it
and can't say for sure.
I wish I could show
you all of them,
But today is not a day
for hearty laughs, when all of these
are just not enough;
today I need that one jar
filled with pure light
from all of those that
keep me in their hearts;
full of gentle smiles
that only eyes can give;
like water on a thirsty day,
like a hand on my shoulder.
Sunil Rajagopal is an amateur birder and writer based in Guwahati