When Bhagubhai cut his thumb off, my grandmother scurried upstairs and locked herself in her room for fear of being contaminated by his blood.
Ma tut-tutted and dressed the man’s hand in one of Dipok’s clean T-shirts, whilst I stood in the doorway biting a hangnail, praying under my breath.
Turns out Bhagubhai hadn’t cut half or even a quarter of his thumb off whilst adjusting the lawnmower. The emergency department had examined the gash, Ma told us, and then stitched the thing together. I asked whether Bhagubhai had cried, but Ma said grown-ups didn’t cry at such things.
There were other things grown-ups didn’t do that Bhagubhai did do though, things that Ma, Baba, Nani or even Dipok knew nothing about.
Our house had many rooms and corridors. You could lose yourself in its spires and mazes. You could hide for a whole day, and no one would find you. It never occurred to me as a seven-year-old that the reason no one found me on those hot days was because nobody was looking.
Dipok and I roamed free. We crawled through junk-filled rooms where Baba stored chairs, tables and wardrobes he’d bought at auction. Then Dipok would lie with Nani for his afternoon nap, and I would sneak away and tap on the back window.
No one noticed the man-child employed to mow the lawns, clean the car and scrub the toilets, when he crept into the pantry to play house with me.
Bhagubhai brought treasures down from the top shelf. He poured pretend tea from Nani’s long-spouted brass teapot. I watched his gap-toothed smile fold over his goblet’s rim as we drank cupsful of syrupy air. We cut into imaginary sandesh and giggled until we heard Nani on the stairs.
He’d slip away before we were caught.
Sometimes we played hide and seek in the park across the road.
Sometimes we played counting games.
Ikri mikri chaam chikri…
No matter how often he showed me, skirting his fingers over mine like he was playing a musical instrument, I couldn’t capture the moves, or learn the words of his song.
When Bhagubhai injured his thumb, I’d already sensed things were changing.
Baba said the car didn’t shine enough. Nani complained about unclean spirits. Nothing was fast enough, clean enough, short enough or long enough.
They questioned me. I was made to place my palm on Nani’s, to swear to tell the truth.
Did you play together, just the two of you?
Yes.
Where did you play?
What did you play?
Yes.
No.
Yes.
I tried to give the right answers, but the wrong words jumped out of my mouth.
We played Ikri mikri.
Yes.
He touched me with his fingers.
When Nani invoked the names of several gods, I knew it was over.
Sometimes I can’t sleep. I feel Bhagubhai’s fingers dance over my own.
Ikri mikri chaam chikri…
I drift off, and ask him to teach me the words.
But he never does.
Nod Ghosh completed year two at Hagley Writers’ Institute in 2014. Nod’s work features in
Landfall, JAAM, Takahē and various international publications. Thanks to Morrin, all tutors and editors. Further details on her
website.
At the River
another day at the river
dust thrown up
by cars driving on
to a better spot
heat waves dancing
on the scorching stones
they need the sun
after an ice cold spell
in the fast flowing water
laid out on their towels
tingling warmth
turning to burning
for a laugh
she flicks river water
onto his sizzling back
his reaction swift
only half expected
up and striding
toward her
he sweeps her off her feet
“put me down”
obediently he lets her fall
not into the river
but onto the stones
the hot, sharp stones
Raina Kingsley is of Ngai Tahu, Ngati Mamoe, Ngati Kahungunu and Rangitane descent. This year she is a student at the Hagley Writers’ Institute. Her poems are published in Quakes and Community, Leaving the Red Zone, Poetry NZ.
Wild Mushroom Picker
the wild-mushroom picker steps
into the dew-wet grass, bows
as if practising tai-chi
in slow motion, she scoops the grass
raises a large white mushroom
to the goddess of morning
Angel
In the right light
the light speckle of wings
turns blue from bronze,
hangs in the air
like a kāhu
ready to close in;
each sweep of slow
quartering flight
each disappearance
as she moves sideways
into the light
trembles
in the placid
waters of the estuary.
Philomena Johnson lives in Christchurch. She completed her studies at The Hagley Writers’ Institute in 2017 and is continuing to work on her first poetry collection. She has previously had poems exhibited in On Islands Eramboo in Sydney.
Aloneness Has A Taste
In the way kitchens
and conversations go together
he said
do you turn together after sex
or away?
Looking back
this was the beginning
of their absence
and wilderness
They straddled a fine line
while serpents rose
from the dust
Wanting cake
and eating her too
hardly something to immortalise
in a poem
Aloneness has a taste
Not one to savour
Its sound, the hollowness
of her laughter
Tracey graduated from Hagley Writers’ in 2015 with distinction. She has been published by London Grip (2015, 2016, 2017), The Christchurch Press (2015), in “We” Society Poetry Anthology (2015), in Leaving The Red Zone (2016), and was longlisted in the National Flash Fiction Competition 2016.
Tomorrow, Wendy
In this house of stone, the windows are open.
She waits in half consciousness
composing moonlight
the toss of possibility
the turn of the past.
Night air on her cheek
a final push to leave their bed
just the smallest leap
and it is done.
Out, across the rooftops
she is dashing white water
in a swollen river, her own protagonist
at last, the freedom of telling:
escape or abandonment
chimney sweep, pixie or reindeer.
Arriving at an opposite house
there’s a fire in the grille
an apple tree in the yard
guilt, and sugary desire.
The choice is already made
The bridges no longer exist.
Time passes, asterisks on a page
and in the next chapter
ordinary ornaments appear
a toilet brush and a rubbish bin
the creeping threat of routine.
Circumstances change, the candles
are lit less often.
The season is shifting again
like the weight of consequence
and suddenly there it is
Autumn coming ‘round
that vague flavour of dissatisfaction.
In the cool night
the ache of indecision
either side of midnight
and windows, always windows.
Stephanie is based in Christchurch and was an inaugural member of the Hagley Writers’ School. She finds time to write occasionally in the space between her day jobs as a lawyer and mother of three. She has had poems published in various journals and publications.
