Tallying zeroes

Reading Lolita in KashmirA boy, I often raidedmy grandpa's study.An art dealer,he collected bookswith gilded edges,Aristotle to Zolaall stuck togetherin the humidity..But I found Lolitaand carried it outto his '69 Chevy,scanning the pagesfor 'dirty' bits.Should have lookedharder, I guess.I drove Lo out for a spinteen-tunes swirlingin my head,'I wanna hold your hand.'We idled over a valley ringedby sharp mountains, whiteturbans on their peaks..Lake Dal shimmeredin the mountain's hem,polished by a soft breeze.A paisley-shaped river sobbedthrough a dazed valley..Amputated tree trunks screamedreams of plastic choked icy streams,barbed wire hedged the Shalimar,Toyotas jammed the bazaars.An ancient Sufi shrine oddly gutted,its rich latticework lost.New architectureshowed no awe for Nature.Half-widows wailed,clawing at mass graves,yearning for their disappeared..Nightingales sangof joy, not sorrow..At Zero Bridge,lilacs by bunkers bloomed..A Lord of the Skies sound-boomed —startled, stray dogs howled..In Grandpa's shiny Chevy,Lolita slipped from my lap.as we finishedour foreboding odyssey..* * *.In another country.In Kashmir, half-asleep, Mother listens to the rain.In Manhattan, I feel her presence in the rain..A rooster precedes the Call to Prayer at Dawn:God is a namedropper: All names at once in the rain..Forsythias shrivel in a glass vase on her nightstand.On my windowsills, wilted petals, a petulance in the rain..She must wonder when I will put on the kettle,butter the crumpets, observe silence in the rain..She veils her hair, offers a prayer across the oceanswater on my hands becomes a reverence in the rain..At Jewel House in Srinagar, Mother reshapes my ghazal."No enjambments!" she says as I listen in the rain.."Rafiq," I hear her call above the city dinThe kettle whistles: Mother's scent in the rain..* * *.I go back to 1939 when my parents wed.As arranged, they meet the first time.He's a law student. She's a child-bride..She wears red: For rancor?Head bowed, veiled little stars.in gold thread, waits on the bedlike an arrow drawn on a bow..Henna-touched hands, a mirror poisedon lap: A girl staring back..If he sits beside her,she will see him glance at her image..In the courtyard, children sing,"Petals fall from almond trees.".The singing could continue untilhe displays a blood-stained sheet..Footfalls on stairs, whispers,robes rustling, attar of roses..His hand on her chin, her heart leaping.He kisses her eyes closed.."Stop. Sever the bond," I scream,"He'll play possum, make you prey.".The mirror slips from her fingers,bangles clash on her fleshy arms..* * *.Lost in Translation."I have a radio in my headand I'm forever listening.to whispers, always whispers,"Mother tells Harry the shrink,.who puts a rubber band on her arm,and flicks it. "Did that turn.off the radio?" he asks.She winces, removes the band,."You've made this into child's play,"she says, swiveling her chair.to glare at me, her fifth child,reclined on the couch.translating Kashmiri,Mother tongue..* * *.Hallucinations.The servants never listen to meonly when the new wife nodsthey run around like ratsto fetch the thermos.There is poison in the spring waterChanel! A present from my sonin America — the windcarried my message.after allThieves.under my bed.I want latches on my door.and a mirrorThe old one shattered when the nailgave wayI hang my shawl on the wall.dried roses upside downMy room not swept for six daysNo water to soak clothesMy daughter will clean.this room when she visits meAt night the door is bolted from outsideIf the house catches fire who will open it?Will I burn alive?.A pane is brokenand smell from the servant's outhouseturns my stomachI'll spray Chanel!.My grandson from his gravehas come to visit meHe is with his great-grandfatherThey both received transfusions.My husband says I don't need a doctorbut that doesn't keep his new wifefrom going to the General HospitalI am still the head of this household.O Wind tell my son in Americathe dollars he sendsthe new wife misspendsTell him I need a car.to buy roses in the bazaarat the ShalimarMy husband has lost interestin roses.For years he's been saying"Maryam is mad, mad"Is there anything wrong with me?My sky is vaster than my mind.My son builds homes for me in America.for me in America.Views of river and rolling hills wherethe Maharaja of Kashmir exhales —.No waterI have no water.I have no water.The servant washing disheskeeps it from reaching me.Everyone has cancerincluding the midwivesO North windwhat is taking my grandson so long?.what is taking my grandson so long?.Dead mosquitoes in my denture bowl.* * *.On receiving Father at JFK after his long flight from Kashmir.As I fling my arms wide, he extends his hand..* * *.Fire tree.Tips of his mustache whip braided,my Harris Tweed-suited grandfather60-years-ago planted a sapling in thefront lawn of our home in Kashmir.."Our chinar will last a thousand years,"Grandfather said as rustling boughsreigned above the tin roof of the housewhere I was born a Scorpio at midnight..Every fall each leaf burst into a flower.We gathered the remains of dyesto create our rustic fuel for winter,sprinkling water on burning leaves.palms brushing light ashes together.I packed fragile coal in a clay potmatted in painted wicker, my kangri,cloaking it between my knees.under a loose mantle, my pharun.The ashes warmed my bag of bones.I flew to the future of other worlds,returning years later to see my father,.sun-withered, sipping his morning teaalone beside an amputated trunk.Last night I dreamt I went to Kashmir again.I was being rowed in an embroidered shikara.to the Garden of Rajas who had vanished,and the garden was a sea of hell; our tin roofcollapsed, our fire tree submerged, andbarrenness had become a thousand things..~ Rafiq Kathwari, the first non-Irish to be awarded the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award, obtained an MFA from Columbia University. His debut collection, In Another Country, is published by Doire Press. He divides his time between New York, Dublin and Kashmir.