She was intoxicated by the words falling from your lips,
She let you feast on her riches and her body,
She let you steal her soul,
She lost herself in you and she came to be you;
God only knows,
She heard her beseeching voice in the haboob,
Or was it the cry of a lamb in the arid dunes,
God only knows.
Anita Bacha
Dear friends and readers, The Other Side of Paradise, is one of the poems that you will find in Part 2 of my poetry book INK, Echo of life and love (2019).
After the Second World War, there was a shortage of food stuffs in the Island. In those years, Mauritius was a colony under the British rule.
Nonetheless, our family did not feel the immediate pangs or the aftermath of the war as we were quite well off. My mother, I fondly remember, splashed herself with Yardley Eau de Cologne every morning after her tub bath. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and I could follow her around the whale of a house that we had, sniffing her perfume like a little dog.
My father was a whole sale merchant and he was bringing home our share of ration rice. It was our basic food and also the basic food of the whole population of some 500,000 heads.
A hard, little, yellowish pearl, unpolished and unrefined, my mother told me that this grain of rice came in its husk during the war. In those days called ‘le temps margoze’ (the sour gourd days) by the local people, the women folk had to pound the rice in a mortar to separate the husk from the rice. They used to call it ‘du riz pousse femme’ (the rice that drive women away) because it was a real nightmare for women to pound the rice.
We were fortunate, I gather, because we did not have to pound the rice. But once in a week, in a ceremonial manner my mother sat a small wooden bench and surrounded by the maid servants, they would busy themselves at cleaning the rice. The rice was placed on large aluminum trays in small heaps. It was winnowed and then the grit was separated from the grain. In a small tin, my mother kept the small black stones to throw away and in her lap, the broken rice to feed the birds.
Close to her, on a smaller bench, I sat down to be with her. I felt like a big girl because I could pick out the stones and the broken rice from her heap.
After she had finished and filled a big iron container with the clean rice, I had the liberty to bury my head in the warm and loving lap of my mother. I breathed in the intimate scent of a woman interlaced with the perfume of eau de cologne and the smell of ration rice.
Years after, this scent still filled my whole being with the sweet memory of my mother.
Anita Bacha
Mother and Child image source internet.
Above is a true story. Thank you for reading my dear friends.
The Socks In coils like two cotton balls Coated with dust From under my bed A brush stroke brought out the socks! Forgotten Abandoned Consciously or unconsciously The socks you left behind Sad, blue Filled with bitterness The stare blank The socks I caught in my trembling hands Gave me a lump in my throat The socks recalled your being there Curled against me in my bed It was not a dream! The socks made me a little scared Fear the idea that you will never come back To warm my bed To cover me with delicious cuddles The socks made me chuckle too Giggle at the idea that I had never seen such large feet Such big toes, teasingly tickling my feet The socks revived in me the great happiness These senseless moments When we both laughed like kids Happy to be together Pleased that we had met Pleased that we were in love!
Happy Mother’s Day! Sharing a poem dedicated to my mother who passed at the age of 42 after a long illness of innumerable years.
FOOTPRINTS
She was walking on the beach A long skirt hiding her knees Dotted with tiny blue florets A white linen blouse flattened her bosom Prude, She never wore a bathing suit
Immaculate as the sunset Pretty as a picture Mysterious as the sea Smiling to herself Poetic, in love, sweet, A dreamer She fell in love only once People said The blessed day was her wedding day
A long trail of foot steps She left Printed in the moist sand In joyous innocence Behind her I walked Placing my steps One by one in her wake She was the apple of my eye! She was my mother! She is my inspiration!
Anita Bacha
Published in my book SOUL POETRY (2015) under the title ‘The Apple of My Eye’.
Anita Bacha 