Hidden from his eyes,
often, I had played with grandpa’s fortune-telling cowries.
Finding those cowries, gone out of sight, on the shelf in the old house
now, I play by myself, for no reason at all,
with those unique remnants from the depths of the ocean.
Slippery in the fist, they wrangled softly.
Clapping like a boy
tossing and catching them
with the practised ease mastered in childhood;
tossing them again higher
playing around with them leisurely in the expanse of the sky
making them land on the up-turned palm;
tossing still higher and catching them over and over again
slapping the thighs, waiting, palm outstretched for their pleasurable touch;
tossing them again to make them leap even higher
snatching them, in a flash, in the fist
to the thrill of snaring the Other.
Praying, tempting even the fortune-telling Other thing
snuggling radiant in the open palm,
tossing it to the sky invoking, “Here, please God!’
waiting even as impatient fingers dance expectantly,
hungering, holding on to life, all eyes:
Will it flip over - the pada-artha
the real thing, the true sign forging sound and sense?
Will it fall on its back as four pairs of eyes?
The words I utter, can they see me really?
Yes, if fortune favours.
Vanamala Viswanatha, is a Professor, School of Education, Azim Premji University, Bangalore.
