Grandmother

I.

(Thanks to kind Fiona Bolger)

My grandmother sits there
chanting in a muted voice
krishna, krishna, krishna krishna
the prayer drifts on
playing its own music
hitting all the chords right
the words forgetting themselves
in their own rhythm

as she slowly drifts
to an uneasy sleep
induced by a mix of pills
and exercises prescribed
by the man in white
whom she loathes above all

as the advertisers on TV
drone on ceaselessly
explaining the fundaes of stock markets
and the newsmen lamenting
the fall of rupee
as the markets flopped

as her dreams fill with nightmares
of the doctors' white coat
whiter smiles
waiting to prise her open

she startles to wakefulness
and as on autoplay
resumes the quite chants
om parasakti nama
om parasakti nama
om parasakti nama
om shanti
shanti
shanti.

II.

She sits on the porch
on a creaky stool

leaning on the red armrest
looking out at the world passing by

her eyes never saw much
ears failing now

but in the bicycle bell of the newspaper boy
she hears how the world fares

the sun seeping through the trees
shows her lives no one ever sees

in the void of the house
she lives a hundred lives

past converses fluently with an uncertain present
leaving the present a muddled mess.