Four Poems by Rochelle Potkar: ATS

By Rochelle Potkar


The ice factory

…owner Sarosh is a Parsi;
of a diminishing Indian community.
His voice so husky, like saw
scrapping ice to slush.
The factory produces ice slabs, ice cubes, ice blocks
to keep fresh soups, drinks, juice.

Sarosh visits on rare occasions, when
his phone rings, when glaciers are to melt
in sheepish Kalyan. Time moving backward.
No industries, agriculture in this town,
just a train junction, stopover for two historical sites: fort and marshland.

Today he receives a call at 8, to keep aside a slab, coming by any of his trucks.
He holds a jute-sack blanket
and before anyone else sees, his mouth goes agape,
a frozen woman - mouth ajar, eyes wide, hair far-reaching as capillaries, thighs
marked in red branches - tree to roots
is in a slab.
preserved
like in ice age.

She doesn't seem local -- fair skinned in a red blouse,
skin olive, porcelain goddess… caught in surprise
of a photoflash with metal, mental, gun-dust.

The instruction is to ship her
with other consignments: flake, tube, slurry.

Between ammonia gas, gushes of water, common salt,
engines of electricity, hums of tanks,
Sarosh hefts the slab. Drives the truck himself.

A quick exchange at the landing sites. Flesh for fresh.
Fishing habour sites of aquaculture.
This unknown woman is unnamed too for now,
before the search from her visa-country begins...
many unknown women-hunts
for lust, prize, or game,

who have gone through slabs to the Arabian sea,
until time preserves the melt of truth,

each second – a loud plop.


Harry Mendonsa (may his tribe decrease!)

died on a vacation in Siliguri
at 98
on 27th January 2018, quite unexpectedly.

He, the consumer of Amul butter, Limca, Lipton tea,
lover of Krackjack biscuits, Gold Spot, Parle-G,
and Old Monk and Bagpiper on Christmas eves.


They found in his side cupboard
20 styles of brooms,
four harps, five mouth organs,
a sauce bottle that had turned black,
items from the flea markets,
and a bag of chips from 1976.  

Anyway…
He was the user of Old spice, Colgate-Palmolive, Dettol,
Amrutanjan balm, Borosil for burns, Dabur talcum powder,
and Gillette shaving cream.

They found under his mattress
a diary of how he killed neighborhood dogs,
polaroids and drawings of torture of birds and cats.
Some occult diagrammatic stuff…

 Anyhow…
He is survived by his son Roger, daughter, Alva,
grandchild Jane, wife Olga,
predeceased by brother John, father James, mother, Jean.

Roger discovered letters with revealing photos
of several women.
Unopened, unused gifts atop his cupboard,
a box of sardonic emails for all the neighbours.
A gift to be opened only after his death:
of a cock ring, massage oils, and vibrator.

 Anyhow...
He was a wearer of Bombay Dyeing, Bata chappals, Raymonds.
Purchaser of Reynolds pens, Bajaj scooter, Gold Flake.
Was always thrilled to travel Air India or on his Hero Cycle.
The last one to sip McDowell's No. 1. on any child’s christening.

His daughter Alva found divorce papers
from a previous marriage.
She never knew he was married before.
Also, a will where he left his garden spade
for her mother-in-law.

Anyway…
Harry was born in Naigon on Jan 8, 1950. A graduate of St. Agnel’s Institute of Polytechnics.
Assistant manager at Ashok Leyland.
On June 2, ‘75 he married Olga - librarian and school sweetheart.
On Dec 11, 1979 they welcomed Roger. He had five LIC policies
and loved Doordharshan an Onida TV.
He enjoyed carrom and travelling to 33 villages.
Problem-solver, he was in-house mason,
taking up difficult projects for his neighbors.

Wife Olga found condoms of different colors
in his drawers.
Porn magazines in attic boxes and
bank’s names in anagrams with PINs
which turned out to be
women’s names and phone numbers.
A briefcase with VHS porn
and lots of blue prescription pills.  

Anyway…
An amateur badminton player at the Dombivli sports club,
he was into church activities, playing the mandolin at Saturday services.
Every Sunday he ate at Sarvanna Bhavan or Murugan Idli’s 
driving-slow in his Fiat 1100,
sipping Campa cola or Duke's Mangola.

A co-worker brought home his membership cards
to a sex club
and subscriptions to several sex magazines.

His last words were: “I'm going to beat this, this is nothing. I got away with murder.”

Anyway…
He will be deeply missed by friends and family. A funeral service is schedule for 1.00 on February 12th at Bardez Church, Karnik street.
Reverend William Athaide will officiate.
Flowers, donations, condolences may be offered
at 23rd room, first floor, St. Joseph's Colony.


ATS

They never disagreed - Ruby, Tessa, Helium;
he didn’t need coping mechanisms.
He sowed his oats into soft burgundy strands
or in the blonde, or the one with rolling blue eyes.
Each time he came life-size: wife, girlfriend, wife,
or slave, slut, whore
haunted by the happenings in Syria, or the price of potatoes.

He had picked them from inventors in a garage
teasing each lump,
picking each pinch of nipple,
flex of vagina, shape of breast,
quantum of lip,
succulent pulp, flexi-waist,
programmed orgasms.

Somewhere they spoke of marriages
society, safety and children.
Not sex three times.

The blonde knew how to shudder
the brunette to surrender,
blue-eyes loved rape.

Somewhere far a researcher
was doing the rounds
on new doll makers and owners in town,
dipstick analysis on loneliness,
flaccid alienation,
affinity to moist silicon,

as he celebrated triple birthdays:
he took them to the movies, grocery shopping.
Front seat of the car
turn by turn – with no insecurity,
emotional-redundancy.

Until the lamps went dry,
outside his smoky window.

They said of every innovation
colas and bulbs,
that in the first year
they only had early adopters

You see, this was going to be one big – one BIG trend,
he thought quaveringly.


Rochelle Potkar is our Poetry Editor. To view her profile click here.