For a long time, I did not imagine that poetry could be read for pleasure. It was something read or rather learnt by rote in school to be recited in an elocution. In my head, poetry was boring. The language was flowery, the sentences were crooked with the noun often succeeding the verb, more was implied than stated and there was too much to decipher. Way too much effort to make for a fun read, or so I thought.
This notion was first challenged by Vikram Seth’s Golden Gate, which was forced down my throat by a well-read friend. I have never been so thankful for almost being choked. Seth’s Golden Gate, a novel-in-verse, is a testament to the man’s genius. To tell a compelling story while maintaining rhyme, rhythm and metre is no easy task, but he manages it and how. It is quite easily amongst my top 10 reading recommendations. It opened my eyes to the idea of a different style of poetry.
Yet, I confess that poetry is not my preferred reading genre and is relegated to the middle child treatment between novels and short stories. But, recently, at the charming MayDay Bookstore in Delhi, I am tempted to pick up My Encounters with a Peacock by Ramu Ramanathan. Having recently interacted with the writer briefly a few times, I have witnessed his quirky and quick wit firsthand. His plays often delve into serious topics with social and political undertones and thus the whimsical title of this book of poetry is intriguing.
The thought behind My Encounters… originates from the writer’s actual interaction of feeding peanuts to a peacock in rural Maharashtra a few years ago. He imagines those few moments multiplied into many more, stretched out over months in this compilation of free verse. In the book, the protagonist narrates how a peacock wanders over to his house one day and how a chat about something commonplace grows into a friendship. Over the months they talk about their lives, complain about their wives, gossip about neighbours and friends, comment on the news and share their thoughts, both the superficial and the embedded ones. The book ends abruptly, when one day the interactions stop. Just like the peacock had one day unassumingly walked into his life, he leaves without ceremony.
For the first few pages, I try to look for the hidden meaning, the lines between the lines, a political undertone, symbolism. But, then I stop. Peppered with many laugh out loud moments, it is far too enjoyable to be riddled by over thinking. It mirrors the many interactions we have with other humans. People who take a seat next to us on trains and planes, or in hospital waiting rooms or in queues at government offices. People unknown and unrelated to us, with whom we have a few minutes of interactions about the weather, politics, current affairs and maybe even our lives. People who, for those few minutes or hours, capture our attention but whom we never meet again.
I am at breakfast at the garden of my hotel in Jaipur as I chuckle over the book. When I look up from my book and slice of toast, a peacock stands some 20 metres from my table pecking at the grass. I half expect him to look up and wink at me, like he so often does in the book. He does not. But, I am inspired to pen down my own single interaction with a peacock…
He wanders about
To my breakfast nook
Slice of toast and jam
O.J. and an espresso too.
I offer some crumbs
And ask, To eat or to go?
I’ll stay a bit, he says.
We chat of Rafale, diesel
And gossip of DeepVeer too
We share our dreams, fears
Probe life’s deep meaning
Confide as only strangers do.
Tomorrow I leave, I say
Hoping my feathered friend
Will offer a tear or a sigh
Miss me? The question lurks
Unuttered deep in my throat.
Mayhap tomorrow, he says,
It’ll be a meat lover here
To share some scraps
With the conversation
I’d love me some bacon
On a slice of buttered toast.