Grapes

Bruises

This is me trying to say something about us. Whatever

Thing we have between us. I want to take stock of what had grown wild when

We left it to its own devices. Neither of us wanted to touch it,

So it sat there festering, spawning,

Growing comfortable.

I wish you could initiate, sometimes. I get tired too. Sit down

And let us talk it out. Yesterday and the weeks before yesterday

You always found something more urgent, and I

Let you slink away because I got tired and thought: Why bother?

I was washing grapes the other day and suddenly found renewed

Desire to broach this topic. The grapes were in the fridge for

Too long and I was worried about it rotting. Both of us would not like that

So we have to decide on what to do: eat it, or

Throw it away.

Between my prying fingers, I found

Bruises, where the grapes had rested against one another. I think the grapes have been

Growing, even when they are snipped and bagged. (Have you been watering them?)

That inevitable growth forced us

Too close till it hurts. We withdraw further from each other. I am

Prodding those bruises between us now. I am

Trying to say something about us. You would have

Preferred the logical explanation: Gravity, or

Something beyond your control, had forced the grapes to push against

One another and they can only resign to the bruising. But

The thing is, immobilized patients have to be carefully turned over to avoid bed sores

And those grapes have been in the fridge for a long time and neither of us

Chose to move it. Still robust, not yet bed-ridden, and we got careless and indifferent.

Now do you see that the weight of supporting each other that

Should have been bearable

Became unbearable.

I meant to say something grander than sickly hospital ward

And bed sores and tired nurses because when I washed the grapes, I thought of bronzed gods

Propped on an elbow, craning towards the sweet fruit or throwing their heads back

To the gleam of overflowing wine. The golden arches,

Marbled floor and sweet stench of extravagance, those grand images you

Never learnt to let go. I do not know any classical allusions. All I could feebly offer you

Is make-belief grandeur I never learnt to love. That is why instead

I paint you this sickly hospital ward and those bruised grapes. Tender bruises

Hurts when I press too hard, but I have to remind you

Our love is no immobile patient but there is someone groaning in a bed

Protesting in pain and you are the nurse and you forget that the thing is,

Even those who do not have much time left still have to be carefully turned over.