Ermelinda Makkimane, Poetry 2021 Featured Writer

 Mother's Song 

I caught my mother's song, a piece

of yearning twisted with woolly bits of love,

and deftly put it in the narrow neck

of a memory jar that broadened

into highways to all songs she'd ever sung.

And when I need to sleep

all I have to do is uncork the wispy jar:

mother's song envelops me

like a snug hammock. 

Sleep is not long in coming. 

Ermelinda Makkimane, Poetry 2019 Shortlist

Death of A Child

She ran her fingers 
through her child’s hair.
A curl descended 
on the child’s forehead
and the mother blew at it.

The curl flew off and then 
bounced back playfully.
The mother stared at the curl,
The only sign of liveliness now
in that lifeless body.

Body, she shuddered at the word. 
When did my child become a body, 
she wondered?
The nurse came and tried to rouse her 
but she shrugged her off.
She needed some more time
with her baby.

The attached wires and tubes
were finally taken off and
she bent over and took
the baby into her arms
and rocked her gently.

She crooned 
an old lullaby
in a broken voice. 
A nurse stifled a sob 
and fled from the room.
But the mother hummed on, 
heedless to the activity 
around her:

The machines being put away,
the wires being set in their place,
the tubes being cleaned, 
all being made ready
for the next occupant.

The Catholic nurse on duty 
suddenly turned from the scene
and blinked back tears
as she saw the similarity
with the Pieta.*

The mother whispered
sweet things
into the child’s ears 
as if she were 
promising a treat. 

She realised the pain 
of not knowing, 
but believing
what the eyes 
could not now behold.

Her child was at peace somewhere 
beyond her grasp, alive and well.
She greedily took in 
the features of the still child 
knowing she must leave soon.

Her heart, however, 
ached and twisted
and seemed not to understand
the urgency of the 
nurses in the room.

So she ignored all the sounds around her
and wrapped her arms tighter still
willing life into the child, 
Willing God to put things right,
To give life to the dead.

Nothing happened.
The mother uttered a long sigh,
Grief flooded her senses.
The nurses came rushing to her
As her body was wracked with sobs,

Very gently, delicately, 
they took away the baby
Then led the mother
to the place where
The rest of the family waited.

They mourned together 
in a huddle
Drawing life from each other, 
The pain of their loss 
was sharp and hurting

But the mother gathered herself
quicker than the others
Her moments with the child 
had given her a grace, 
A sense of peace. 

It now uplifted her very soul
She looked radiant almost, 
as she led the family to the chapel. 
“Come let’s thank the Lord 
for the gift of our girl,” she said.

*The Pieta is a marble sculpture by Michelangelo depicting a surprisingly youthful Mary with the lifeless body of Jesus in her arms

Short Story 2018 Longlist, Ermelinda Makkimane

Untitled

It was a hot sultry afternoon. The sleepy suburb of Santacruz (in the then Bombay) seemed to yawn and stretch and then go off to sleep again. Having got off the bus from the Kalina university campus after my classes for Master of Arts in English, of course, I made my way to the farthest train platform where I had to catch the train to Andheri, only two stations away to the north of Santacruz.

I never took the Borivali local* train from platform one, preferring instead to sit on the bench of platform three, awaiting my particular train that was always, punctually, ten to fifteen minutes late. I had nothing in particular to read that day, so I whiled my time watching the goings-on in my surroundings. I distinctly remember a dog ambling around the platform looking for a place that would be cozy enough for his afternoon snooze. A few people straggled onto ‘my’ platform and scattered themselves across the length of the platform. Suddenly the loudspeaker came alive: brrack…ccrraaacck…a crackly voice then announced something that sounded garbled to me.

There was an instantaneous electric response to the lady announcer’s words. The slumbering public snapped to attention. They started pouring onto ‘my’ platform from all possible routes. The athletic ones jumped off platform one and crossed the tracks to make it to platform three. Some others walked down the sloping end of platform one and then crossed the tracks to reach platform three. Still others took the bridge. Almost everyone had converged onto the platform when I noticed HIM – a frail, old man on the other side of the tracks. I saw that he had tried to jump off the platform but it had been too steep for him so he had made his way down the sloping end and was now heading towards ‘our’ by now fairly crowded platform.

The train’s horn sounded as it began to pull in at the other end of platform #3 and I craned my neck to look for ‘my’ old man. He was still climbing up the slope of platform three. His frailty became more pronounced and as the train drew to a halt, he had not even made it past the motorman’s cabin. I silently egged him on, willing him to move closer to the desired door where many hands would willingly pull him in. But the fight seemed to have gone out of him. The motorman’s tinkle sounded. I thought he would rush into the ladies’ coach which was conveniently next to him. But he would have none of it! He still foolishly attempted a few steps forward when the train, with a characteristic jerk, began pulling out of the station.

The man did not seem fazed. He made no gesture of anger or frustration. He turned and wended his way back to his original platform – old, bent and frail – to resume his wait for the next train there.

My heart ached that day and all my study of English Romantic* theory seemed mere “blah”. Did Wordsworth feel something similar when he walked away from the singing Highland lass? My train arrived soon after and I got on, carrying with me a memory that would not fade with time and here am I writing about it, 22 years later!

*Local trains are those that ply between Virar, a far flung suburb of Mumbai and Churchgate, a railway station of the British era. The particular train services referred to here are Borivali-Churchgate and CST-Andheri.
*The Romantic Age is a period of English (read: British) literature with certain key features that set it apart.