THE DIVORCE: BASUDHARA ROY
Basudhara Roy is an Assistant Professor of English at Karim City College, Jamshedpur, India. Her areas of academic interest are diaspora theory, feminism and postmodern criticism and she is currently working on her doctoral research on Indian American women writers. Several of her research papers have been published in reputed journals within the country. As a creative writer, she has been published in magazines such as Muse India, Rupkatha, The Volcano and The Challenge.
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Aloof we sit, both you and I,
Though the evening is spread out against the sky1,
In pearly robes befitting a bride.
You count your pains, I knit my pride.
Silence gushes between us like a winding stream
Between rocks. We each weave an unbroken dream
Of which the other is no longer a part.
Vows have once again been exchanged, there’s been a return of hearts.
This venture should be dissolved, we partners twain agree.
We gave as much we got, joint pleasures being free.
Beckoned each by different tracks, we both relentlessly survey,
Our personal emotional stocks now, to invest another way.
It’s tough, this accounting of love’s long balance sheet.
There are innumerable petty entries, yet the statement must be neat.
Debits and credits settled, the profit mutually disposed,
We legally deem now our relationship’s account closed.
And yet this separation makes us both strangely wise.
For no receipts can certain memories warrant or legalize.
Your caresses on my hair, my fingers on your spine,
The early morning teas together, the blue china’s design.
The special patterns of the doorbell, announcing whence you came,
My summons in a special tone, in mellow notes your name,
Ten naughty toes awaiting mine under tables, quilts and sheets,
They taunt me now with their familiarity, those lovingly travelled streets.
The worth of a winning smile, the meaning of a tear,
An assured hand to lock my fingers, in moments of dread and fear.
Companionship like a pair of shoes, we affectionately grow used to,
Whose worth is rendered the greater now in contrast with the new.
Recurring dreams now everyday, erase that tumultuous break with the past.
But what’s in anarchic memories undone, must still in signatured papers last.
1. Tribute to T.S. Eliot's "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock"
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