Be it Victoria brand eye-liner Or the kohl of the heroine Writambhara The purest of these were only made by Noor Miyan Or so my grandmother believed! She’d always buy some from him. One thin line of darkness she’d draw And her eyes would threaten like rain clouds Rivers would merge in them Those eyes would flow into oceans Wherein we children would gaze And see it all! My grandmother blessed him and his kohl It gifted her with youth in old age And light to pierce needles with thread. I often wanted to tell her she was Sukanya And Noor Miyan her Chyawan Rishi His kohl the elixir of her eyes. Her eyes were not eyes, but irises. His kohl, the gift of nourishment. And Noor Miyan went away to Pakistan! Why? They say he had no one here. Who were we? Why did he leave? Without telling us, Without letting grandmother know? Why did he go away to Pakistan? Now there’s no dark kohl, nor lit eyes. My grandmother has left for the banks From where she had arrived. She’d married and travelled across the river She’s burnt and has travelled across it again. And as I scatter her ashes on this river It flows into her eyes, to meet the ashes That darken into Noor Miyan’s kohl. And that’s the last time I gifted my grandmother’s eyes With Noor Miyan’s kohl. This poem is part of Naked Punch Issue 18. To buy the issue click here: http://nakedpunch.com/site/issues/16
