Chautal 
In the forest, the papiha bird’s epics
stave off sleep. It’s at midnight
separation from my love
torments me, Without him
I have no peace. My youth wastes.
Phagun is supposed to be a blissful month,
but without Krishna, how can
I enjoy it? Should the day-breeze blow
it’s blistering. I even regret night.
All my friends gather to compose
chautal songs, knocking drums.
Abir in the hands and coloured water;
my pain wakes. What fate
that I take such a ruinous life
and squander it
Lalbihari says “Fair one,
with peace comes happiness”.
Lalbihari Sharma (1915/1916)
Translated by Rajiv Mohabir (2016)
Holi: Spring Festival of Colours
May there always be spring in our eyes
and fingers, feet: pink ixoras, red hibiscus
mauve madar—green buds everywhere
Even live oaks’ allergenic dust coating everything
yellow, golden gainda, daddy said, not marigolds
pani re pani tera rang kaisa—is it rain—or
Water what is your colour? Or plucked stings
Mukesh mixing easily with jhaals chiming
from UP: Holi Khele Raghuvira Awadh Mein
May we sing for a thousand years—more—
chowtals, olaras—Mamas crafting coconut gojias
dholaks in arteries, hearts, ancestry’s souls season
Sasenarine Persaud
The Po-Co Kid
maatahet logan bol na sake hai
darsana nahin maral, murjhaake
Let’s get one thing queer—I’m no Sabu-like sidekick,
I’m the main drag. Ram Ram in a sari; salaam on the street.
don’t speak Hindu, Paki, or Indian,
can’t control minds, have no psychic powers.
I clip my yellow nails at dusk; on Saturday nights
I shave my head. Forgive me Shiva,
forgive me Saturn. I’m Coolie on Liberty Ave, desi
in Jackson Heights—where lights spell Seasons Greetings
to cover Christmas, Diwali, and Eid—
where white folks in ethnic aisles ask, Will your parents
arrange your bride? while Ma and I scope out fags,
gyaff, and laugh while aunties thread our eyebrows.
“Thee subaltern cannot speak.
Representation has not withered away.”
Rajiv Mohabir
Indo-Queer IV
for Sundari
dudh rahe dudh aur pani rahe pani
urdat pakshi ke rang kaun dekh sakela
Hear your Aji talk, Beta, you na get sense?
Hear your Nani say, Chach, you head na gi’ you wuk?
When the elders gather they will all clap their hands,
they will beg your rainbowed silks to wave
and wave. I’ve seen it in Queens, at the Rajkumari
Center in curls, in kajal, in a lehenga.
You dance-walk to buskers’ beats down Liberty
the A train and E, to rum an’ Coke and your wine,
with five countries in your migration story.
You still na get shame, your father rum-stunned snores,
though your mother cries for two years straight
after she finds another man’s underwear in your laundry.
Milk remains milk, water, water,
who can make out the flying bird’s colours?
Rajiv Mohabir
Chutney Mashup
aaj sawaliya ham na jaibe bhitar
balma, ulat pavan chal gaya, chadar bichao
You tie your veil to meet me in the courtyard,
though there no neem tree grows. You wrap your limbs
tightly about mine as jamun fruits betray
their pedicels and stain the concrete with ruby wine.
The shehnai weeps for us only; inside
my strength has ebbed. Spread a sheet on the earth, balma,
that when weary we may lie on silk in peace.
Despite your wise restraint your morals will scatter
in a fire dance—what god can save us?
I will never escape the body’s betrayal.
The neighbour women jeer at the stains on my veil,
my ruined fabric I pleat and tuck at my waist.
Today, love, I will not go outside.
Love, against the backwards wind, spread a sheet.
Rajiv Mohabir
This week is the celebration of the sacred Hindu Festival of Holi or Phagwah, a joyous Spring Festival as well as a solemn period of devotion, marking the triumph of good over evil.
