Thógfadh sé cúigear is fiche mura miste leat ar turas.
Abair: Aintín Perpetual a raibh a hucht gearrtha,
d’ardaíodh sí a t-léine i gcónaí chun an scéal a insint dúinn,
Avo a sheasadh agus a dhéanadh a mhún ar nós sioráif,
Milton, col ceathar, ag cur síos ar threabhsar daoine is brístíní,
Uncail Kaitaan a scar óna bhean sular chaill sé a radharc
agus cathrú air ar bhreathnú siar dó,
nó Aintín Bertha a raibh an oiread sin grá aici dá fear
go mba bhreá leo cithfholcthaí picnice dá gcolainn liobarnach tar éis 40 bliain
(an lánúin a fholcann le chéile...),
Aintín Nysa a staon ó bhia le bheith seang is a d’éirigh feosaí
mar nach ionann a bheith aon kg níos éadroime agus a bheith níos óige,
agus Aintín Alice a bhí colscartha nuair a bhain teir lena leithéid.
Uncail Wilfred a raibh nath cainte aige do gach ócáid
sa Choncáinis liriciúil
rud a d’imeallódh a chuid naimhde
faoi mar a imeallaíodh eisean toisc é a bheith beo bocht.
M’athairse ag cúlú leis i gcónaí ó rothaíocht
na bpáistí,
agus ó chiorcal na beatha is rothaí móra an tsaoil.
Bheadh cúpla uncail spártha suite i gcónaí ar chathaoireacha plaisteacha
leis na tiománaithe is na garraíodóirí
agus buidéil alcóil á n-oscailt go sollúnta acu.
Bheadh piollaí torthúlachta ag Aintín Cassandra
clocha míle páistí eile aici á gcomhaireamh
gaois loiteoige na dea-thuismitheoireachta á cleachtadh aici.
Aintín Matilda ar fithis le curaí, sorpotel,
is gríscíní a friochadh i seimilín is ola shaor lus na gréine.
Fuair daoine an-bhlas ar a cuid ofrálacha dea-mhéine
ach níor thugadar riamh cuireadh chun cóisire di.
Agus maidir leis na searbhóntaí!
Cothrom na féinne le plátaí dinnéir
a gcloigeann lan de mhíolta,
bríste gairid orthu, cíochbheart lasmuigh den t-léine.
Toitíní garbha á gcaitheamh acu, ag crochadh thart
ar chol ceathracha na gceathrún griandaite cruicéid,
ag scigireacht ar chol ceathrair Milton gur ainteagmhaíodh leo
is cuireadh abhaile iad.
M’aintín – bean m’uncail – bheadh spéis aici
i ngach anraith agus an t-oideas,
ba chuma cén tigh nó óstán ina rabhamar.
Ní éalódh aon ní uaithi
fiu agus nóibhéine laethúil ar siúl, clog an aingil nó an paidrín:
an ceangal idir Martha agus Rosie, aon chineál amháin iad,
an obair fhíolagráin ar bhráisléid óir Avo,
an tuarastal a thuill Uncail Jimmy,
na marcanna a thug Edith abhaile.
Ghiorraíodh m’uncail an bóthar
le jócanna luchanna eaglaise ar thraenacha go Goa
agus sos againn ag Miraj.
Chliceáladh sé pictiúir d’Eas Dudhsagar
leis an panache céanna sin
a mbuaileadh Uncail Fred agus Tony an cac as a a gcéile mná
agus d’fhuaigh Aintí Emma an taobh amuigh
de phóca a céile siúd
ionas nach dtabharfadh sé iasacht d’éinne níos mó.
Aon uair a mbíodh Edith ar bharr an ranga
bhí sé ina raic eadrainn – na páistí eile.
Nuair a fuair sí jab agus tuarastal ard,
bhí m’aintín ag lorg náideanna i ngach éinne
ar nós comhábhar in anraith.
Marcanna arda ná airgead ní raibh againne.
Íochtaráin ab ea sinn, pátrúin na bochtaineachta.
Níor linne riamh an lá
lascadh ár n-aintín sinn lena stánadh gormshúileach
i seomra lán de chomhluadar.
Rochelle Potkar (Goa)
Gathering
My uncle had a strange habit of gathering people.Not less than 25 he would take on an outing.
Like: Aunty Perpetual with her breast cut
who would lift her t-shirt every time to show us her story,
Avo who would stand and take a piss like a giraffe,
Cousin Milton who would talk about everyone’s pants and panties,
Uncle Kaitaan who divorced his wife just before he turned blind
and regretted it in hindsight,
or Aunt Bertha who loved her husband so much
they still bathed under picnic showers and sagging flesh of 40 years
(a couple that bathes together…),
Aunt Nysa who starved to look thin and ended up haggard
because one kg less is not a year younger,
and Aunt Alice who was divorced when that was still a stigma.
Uncle Wilfred had one phrase for every occasion
in lyrical Konkani
aimed to marginalize his opponents
who had marginalized him because of his poverty.
My father would step further and further away
from the kids cycling,
as he would from the circle of life and everyone’s life cycles.
A few spare uncles would always sit on plastic chairs
with the chauffeurs and gardeners
inaugurating alcohol bottles.
Aunt Cassandra would be on a fertility pill
counting milestones of other’s children and
practising her lotus-like parenting wisdom.
Matilda aunt orbited around with curries, sorpotel,
and cutlets fried in rava and cheap sunflower oil.
People relished her friendship-offerings
but never invited her for their parties.
And the servants!
Equal of equals on the dinner plates
with their heads full of lice,
they wore shorts, and their bras outside their t-shirts.
They smoked beedis, hovered around the male cousins
with bronzed cricket thighs,
and giggled at cousin Milton until they were molested,
and shunted home.
My aunty – Uncle’s wife - would be interested
in every soup and its recipe,
never mind which house or hotel we were in.
Nothing escaped her sight
even in daily novenas, angelus, or rosaries:
the peas-in-the pulav bond between Martha and Rosie,
the filigreed work on Avo’s gold bangles,
the salary Jimmy uncle earned,
the marks Edith brought home.
My uncle would cut long journeys short
with church mouse jokes on trains to Goa
with break journeys at Miraj.
He would click pictures of Dudh-sagar
with as much panache
as Uncles Fred and Tony beat up their wives
and Aunty Emma stitched her husband’s pocket
from the opening outside
so he wouldn’t lend any more money.
Every time Edith topped her class
there would be mayhem for all of us - the other children.
When she got a job with a heavy pay packet,
my aunt searched for zeros in every person,
like ingredients in a soup.
We had neither high marks nor the money.
We were the pariahs, patrons of penury.
The day never belonged to us
as our aunt whipped us with her blue-eyed gaze
in this room full of people.
