Words For My Family
©Manas Samuel Winfield, 2024
December 24th, 2010
For Ra[sik] on his 18th Birthday
Where would I be without my brother?
Would I have become as virtuosic,
my fingers as dexterous,
without the training gained
from pulling on his gracious cheeks?
Would I have scored as many centuries
or broken as many records as windows,
without his gallant bowling
in the garden of 6A Outram Street?
Would I have soared to such heights,
hurdled the sofa as often,
as President, velociraptor, or penguin
without his presence as audience?
Would I have earned the great honor of speech giver,
at my high school graduation,
without having felt the crushing pressure,
of being his role model?
Would I have ever laughed at a salted peanut,
or in moments where laughter was scarce
like the sacred cuttings of bread
without the glances that he flashed my way?
All jokes aside, I’d like to say to my brother:
As you embark on college, and into the world,
keep in mind that you are not alone,
your big brother is there if you’re ever in need,
wherever I’ve failed, it was so that you could succeed.
Christmas Day Gifts, 2014
For AmmA:
Perhaps because her endless cheese toasts are not published by the same University presses,
she does not receive her due.
but as she silently slaves over the hot stove, I know who is the real hero of the house.
a true all-rounder.
match (and case)-winner.
crowd-pleaser.
charismatic like Tony Grieg (and with almost as much experience commentating).
courageous like Gavaskar,
unafraid of bumps and bruises, burns and blended fingers, broken ankles and hematomas.
the expert on sacrifice.
Paragon of loving devotion.
The future Brian Lara of authors.
The Don Bradman of mothers.
For iDaDi
“Oh, Winfield,”
he says, with a sigh,
as he adjusts his tie
and makes faces in the mirror.
“You look ridiculous.”
does he know how he looks to me?
ridiculous, yes-
ridiculously moral, responsible, hard-working, virtuous, generous, tireless. ridiculously loving
A Thinker and a Doer.
proof of the existence of that mythical creature thought only to reside in the Himalayan wilderness- the “scholar and gentleman”
who listened to his father when he told him, “show me a good pool player, and I’ll show you a wasted life”
I look into the mirror.
“Oh, Winfield”
maybe it’s time I listened to my father
Christmas Present for Dad, 2016
Winfield, a la Ali
A sight to behold-
still bobbing and weaving, “like he’s 18 years old”
though young Foreman pushes him,
back against the ropes,
and in his 10th round now
with back pain he copes,
But he takes each jab,
each verbal hook,
And uses the rope-a-dope:
“Go read my books!”
Then one fine day,
the young pugilist decides to obey.
Quite out of the blue, and into the grey.
Of reading the fine print of books and essays.
The fighters had close family ties,
And Foreman would interview Ali over lunch,
But when he picked up, “Why I am So Wise,”
Ali knocked him over with a mighty punch.
June 16th, 2017, For Amma’s 60th
My favorite poem
meri Ammi, meri Amma,
hair jet black that twirls my fingers,
cuddling and sucking my thumb, a
favorite pasttime as I linger
and she reads me languid Langston:
See, life for her ain’t always been
no crystal stair. It had uncles,
the cruel robbery of Munmun
the countless falls and broken ankles,
and Nani’s Parkinson’s defeat.
It’s had tacks in it bludgeoned hard
and even some self-inflicted blows
beans accidentally cooked in lard,
and black patches she had to show,
That couldn’t be covered over.
And yet she’s still out here climbing,
As up the stair doubts come along,
She hears the pitch of her singing,
And forgets the words of her song.
That echo from the staircase top
she cannot see, obscured by fog:
how you ask?
60 years well-lived.
from the doll of Outram street,
to the intrepid pioneer.
she wanted more than just a marriage,
she’d read Shelley and Keats.
This was a woman who dodged bouncers
not worrying about her teeth,
who always respected the teacher,
without following along too strictly,
who listened to her parents,
until it came to Ricky.
Who bridged continents together,
before the days of Skype.
Bringing suitcases full of presents,
With 3 children towed behind.
(Though of course her greatest gift to Outram Street,
was when she’d given birth to mind.)
She carved a life away from home.
On a small dark distant shore.
As far away from Calcutta.
As a critic of Tagore.
She conquered fearsome law school,
while raising her first child.
Went to work not on corporate taxes.
But stood up for the reviled.
She lost her beloved brother,
A grief she’ll never shake.
But steadfastly honored him.
By never forgetting his take…
on life, on justice, on people, too.
Though she had to carry through,
and raise the next generation,
in the desolation of his wake.
So she inspired them with his exploits,
and the passion in her stories
Revealed her humanistic love,
And her talent for not being boring.
Birthday parties, Halloween costumes,
Hindi lessons and daily legumes,
Simple American kids were not acceptable.
But Indian, too, and who looked presentable.
Who played cricket on the front lawn.
And basketball in the back.
Summer trips to the Motherland,
to bless them with a family,
of mausis, mamas, mausas, and mamis,
endless cousins and nanas and nanis.
A magician in the kitchen.
Who put in long hours making exquisite food for housefuls of people.
And heated up a loving bowl of chicken noodle soup when the bad kid got suspended from school.
And who dealt with unruly teenagers, and crises and chaos, and who zigzagged between her ailing parents and children and hapless clients.
But by now all meter and rhyme disappears. Poetry is revealed to be ordinary. A vain attempt to immortalize. A memory that cannot but escape. A brutal failure. Unfulfilled hopes. Books unwritten. Parents who die no matter how much you love them. Who whither away even in the face of extreme filial piety. No matter how many doctors come or how many nurses, or how faithfully you clean their shit from the floor when there are no nurses around. No matter how much you fight. And is this where we are headed? Life for you ain’t been no crystal stair.
But I glow with admiration, because you have endured. You have accomplished. You have conquered. You have laughed. You have made merry. You have helped. You have made a difference. Most of all you have loved deeply and honestly.
Jet black hair twirling my fingers,
forever my home.
More even than languid Langston’s,
Amma, forever my favorite poem.
Poems for Each Family Member on Christmas 2020
For Dad
Guaranteed jobs at a fair minimum wage,
You put down all else and stopped at this page,
When all else for you is quite infinite,
You hunkered down and let us all try to spin it.
Never wavering from the course,
An immovable DNC met an unstoppable force,
And chose to ignore you, at their own peril
Though you still got $2,700 from dear David Merrill
How must it feel? To have such ideas?
To have the drive, the determination, the ideals?
With the audacity to hope, but with some substance,
When the ones in power are chosen as if by Covenant.
Dismissed as an old, white, man by some in command
Not bothering to read your platform and understand
solutions to big problems are rainbowed white light,
Washing away inequity starting at the poorest of plights
Justified anger, evident in your frustration
of no reward or arrival at our destination
You’ve done all you can, in a world that burns,
To lead by example and help others learn,
More than a logo, more than your hair and glasses,
The humility that comes only with a mind so massive,
The charm of judgment, knowing when to sit back,
knowing when to joke, how to argue, when to relax.
Underrated by your classes, unknown by the masses,
Grateful for the chance simply to search for the passage,
to not just wisdom and truth, justice actualized on Earth
Stopping at nothing in your pursuit, leaving nothing in your lurch.
For Kalindi
Another busy year for you,
Though we got to see you more than ever,
But losing Maggie yanked another root out of our childhood,
And your whole life.
None of us are as resilient,
To know such friendship and such loss,
And the demands of your job, on all of us are lost.
To still be you,
Forgiving and fun,
Sensitive and ever-growing,
Curious and somewhat uncomfortable
with not-knowing,
Is a greater achievement than any campaign success,
Simply the fact that you are always yourself!
Loving me all these years without getting much in return,
What does it mean to be brother and sister? We only have a lifetime to learn.
For Rasik
From mad Dawg to bulldog,
Immersed in international affairs,
Still my brother of compassion and care
Cool, calm, and ever unnerved by my stare.
This year you’ve upped the ante,
Petitioning the Yalies to grant you flexibility,
Coming home and dutily enhancing your credibility,
By believing in the cause of RDW, without any incredulity.
And not just believing, but acting
In fact, steering the ship,
Corralling high schoolers without the crack of a whip,
Giving us many 3 reasons why 28,000 votes was not just a blip.
Leading, seething, and conceding, you made us all proud.
When RDW was looking at an L you didn’t let the L get you down,
Continuing on, remembering your obligation to this town,
And to the ones left behind, hoping to gather them around.
May this be but a marker on your Camino,
Of how far you have walked and how much remains,
Before there’s nowhere left but Santiago,
May you stop at many more a wondrous inn.
Romiday 9/23/2021
Perfection 10/10
How I would miss you so
if you weren’t as omnipresent
in my life
my anchor, my mooring
my sweet stability.
May I not take you for granted-
your efforts, your love, your fighting
on my behalf
Or forget how even as my better half
You may need me
from time to time
Or even more than that, perhaps-
I am not a perfect product
and can hope only to progress
to a better version of myself,
more complete, more whole
more capable of giving you
every last iota of love
you deserve.
In the meantime:
life goes on,
we get older
navigate the mundane
and the Chicago river waters
on boats of wonder
and of necessity.
This life we have chosen to share
together
what does it all mean?
Sometimes, I don’t care anymore
because I have the honor of
sharing the same sofa as you
feeling your warmth
the vapors of your breath
Resting in your assurance,
Your grace
that allows me to
forget how valuable you are
as you return to your
fundamental nature
of having at the same time
absolute conviction
and supreme, unknowing
humility
turning away from yourself-
seeing crystal clear
the problems of the world
and not over-indulging
in your own importance.
And yet,
how could anyone,
how could I, give you
as little thought
as you give yourself?
.jo hua so hua,
.que sera sera;
.it is what it is and always will be.
“Forget the past, live in the present, hope for the future”
HP
Adele
O
O
O
Ps
Call me on my mobile
I speak, I eat, I go to bed
To live with all that I have said
Dreams connect the scattered mess
In the age of the digest
I squander time like sand in glass
Sifting out the slow from fast
Ambition wipes a drop of sweat
That aimlessness would have kept
To cool my heated temple walls
And keep me cozy all-in-all
Away from sparks inside my brain
That leap against the mainframe
That yearn to bring me to my knees
And others to apostasy
I seek to know what’s but a hunch
Have faith for breakfast, truth for lunch
To fill my soul with these victuals
Spitting out the bones of riddles
Basking in delight of wonder
Ocean of thought, pull me under
What has no limits but our time
And willingness to upwards climb
The patience to think through the end
Only our whole world depends
Christmas, 2021
For Dad
”I need to get back to doing some writing,”
With a certain sense of
Certitude
You retire to your study room
To resume
Writing
Cutting short a conversation
I’ve been craving
My entire lifetime
When your subject is
eternal truth
And only time is your
John Wilkes Booth
The assassins of reason
Must you put in their place
And so you write
At your steady rate
Your solace seems to lie
In a realm of thought
That maybe only you’ve
Begot
Making communicating it
Perhaps a second thought
And here your concern for time
Takes a pause
As you tap into the keyboard
Qualifying almost every clause
To the soundtrack of
Your very own Glenn Gould
Mumblings
What will be made of your oeuvre-
Written with such precision
And of rarefied mind-
When the apocalypse comes?
Maybe not in your lifetime but mine
When you’ve climbed on the shoulders
Of Hegel
To stand on solid ground
When study, discipline, and dedication
Did not feel like sacrifice
But self-determination
With no such regrets
Of foregoing fun
Or spending more time
with your son
The truth remains for all to grasp
Even in the aftermath
Of nuclear winter
Or climate change starvation wrath
But if a rational mind never again exists
To read your books if they persist
Would you rest in the same assurance
As in your work,
That you wouldn’t have rather been
A shoe store clerk?
Maybe only you will know
At the close of play
The loneliness of knowledge
A feeling of dismay
With which Hegel must have contended
When his sun came to end of day.
Will you feel anguish or lasting calm
When pondering how truth will never end
Though your mind’s limber arms
Will one day cease to curiously extend?
If no one comes to take the baton
Of what you know and know to be knowable
Would your portrait be any different drawn?
Would your life have been any less noble?
For Amma
A mother is what a mother does
A mother’s love is what
Does the doing
But a mother is also
But another human
My superhuman Amma
Draped in traditional Indian capes
Wearing decorative bindis of all sorts
And the old-fashioned red dot
Extraordinarily fashionable
And humanly vain
Me knowing there was more to the exterior
When I saw my Amma in pain
Antagonized agony being sustained
By my antics, harsh words, and being deranged
(Though I’m sure life served her a platter
Of events with their own stressful clatter)
SuperAmma forgiveness meant that
I never got back half of what I dished out
Though Umar Shankar knew best when he said
“You shouldn’t talk to your mother like that,
You shouldn’t make your mother cry”
As I have grown, so has my Amma
Though we still return to familiar refrains
Of arguing, shortness, and irritation. But-
Perhaps of all people, we know each other best
Which comes to be its own test
Amma is ever consistent in her persistence
As am I in my insistence for her to be less so.
Though Amma’s humanism, empathy, moral support
Has guided me to appreciate myself more,
Know myself better
To build myself up and grow beyond
Even the insecurities that
For Amma may not all yet be gone-
Her social status, human foibles, doubts and flaws,
Though I see in her the Superhuman with awe:
Her Working, Caring, Connecting, and Enduring
Through defeats, great expectations, and grief
I carry within me my Amma’s genes
The stories that go back further than her
The memories that she poured herself into
Creating for me
And yet, much is forgotten
For worse and for better
For there are new stories to be written
And as another admirable Calcuttan remarked:
“To be forgetful is not to forget”
As anyways Amma is All-Pervading
in any poem I may write
As it was her insistence that I lie next to her
As she read words that didn’t seem to
Have any place together,
In the name of poetry.
Though each poem comes to an end
And each new one in succession
Alters the course of history
However humanly
Or superhumanly.
Perhaps to accept that my Amma is
Deserving of as much respect
As space in my heart
Reserved for all that is imperfect
To honor the good, the bad, and the ugly
And the beautiful
And
By all means to illumine
All of my mother that is
Superhumanly human
For Rasik
Dashing through the snow
Of a New intellectual Haven
Having sought refuge
A year before
In a virus-stricken world
Entrenched in family
And good ole friends
The world is your oyster now
Even more so
One of global affairs
As the mind-wanderer
Has become a wanderer
Of great minds
Traveling with a
Public policy passport
Journeying amongst the
Farm lands
Of the future
Daydreaming with
The farmers
Of yesteryear
And today
While still imagining
A unified Athens
To be prouder to call home
Taking part in story telling
And record keeping
And taking the pulse
Of the people
Only lacking
A National Geographic
Camera bag
For Kalindi
As each year passes
With you entering
A new prime
As if you were a series
Of numerical points
Of growth
Indivisible by any other-
It becomes clearer
That your arms are weary
From rowing
And stirring pots of
Dad’s famous chili
And swatting away hordes of
Buzzing suitors
And holding up things to read
At your friends’ funerals
In your everlasting prime
Indivisible by any of these things either
An independent spirit and mind
Of characteristics and quality
That make the pursuit of
An image of togetherness
Envisioned by those around you
And as seen on TV
And by the two who came together
To produce you
Another burden to carry
When your arms are weary
Already
But to a simple multiple
Prime numbers
Stand out from the crowd.
In the human dimension
To be whole in oneself
Is what draws the flocks
Of eyes, opinions, admirations
And deprecations-
But as they pause
In your direction
You keep growing
In your stream of
An overflowing
Force
Confidently washing away
The residue of
Malaise that spews forth
From the sewers of
An underground
Current
Of the ones who
Have kissed their best days
Behind
And divert their gaze
To the ones like you
Who have never stopped
Advancing into your ever-shining prime
April 7, 2022, For Dad’s 72nd
Father and son dialectic
father and son dialectic
who could have expected?
the pugilist
manas
would return bespectacled
hair curly and erected
mirror image of his Creator
(actually progenerator-
but we’ll split that hair later)
who could have expected?
all his suggestions redirected
all his blessings disrespected
all his lessons met with a skeptic
all the death threats and hate mail
coming from his own toddler tyrant
not to mention the wails
and cries louder than
ambulance sirens
In this I clad you with your
Steely concave chain mail
son and father dialectic
shot forth farther and less hectic
your splitting headaches
agitation
passive aggression and
frustration
multiplied a thousand times
in a dynamo of rhymes
loose connections
spilling out
knotted threads in time
Unraveling with tender strokes
through your hair
the crown that you wear
and my beacon in a crowd
eureka loud
red, orange-grey, white and silver
as we float down this river
The stream of Ravel’s Sonatine
soundtrack to my dreams
Pressed into the keys by
steady freckled hands
bending with the love
that cannot withstand
your rare brutish ways
that I pick apart
with full deluded faith
that to honor my father
is to seek consistency with God
Father and son dialectic
Who would recommend it?
Who would not commend it?
A game of catch
And a wait for a son to catch up
to latch on to the vines
in the fields of wine
to see the Logic in the pines
the patches for the lines
the effort, care, dedication
that cannot be named
the love that cannot be tamed
that would bring me to dependence
all the rest of our years
if I could hang around just a little nearer
only to be pushed away
though you’ve sparked the world
and lit my candle
for me to light more
my emptiness
my nirvana
the trepidation of
my self-determination
feels like losing you
Not being able to see my father on Father’s Day, 2023
This Father’s Day
I will continue to be removed
From the table where we would normally have shared a meal
My father and I
Along with my Amma
And even apart from a family video chat
With my brother and sister, too,
Due to having picked up a criminal charge
In the midst of mania
A molehill turned into a mountain, in my mind
Though a scary moment for dad, it must have been
Given our tumultuous past year
Which for me has been not much fun,
Not too easy, at all
Though I still am living off the kindness of my parents,
Dad included
And I do not suspect any enduring bad blood, from his side,
Though maybe my brother or sister feel I am getting off too easy
While they work to pay their bills.
This Father’s Day, I suppose
I will be preparing for a series of future Father’s Days
In which, I will not be seeing my father
Not be giving him the kiss on the cheek,
And hug, which I had planned the day I went to jail, instead.
An uncertain future for me, and Amma, and my brother and sister
Without Dad there at all
Unimaginable, unfathomable, as he has a way of
Running the whole show
In which we are evaluated from the level of authority
Of a distinguished philosopher,
Doing double duty as a loving dad.
This Father’s Day I wonder
Will my absence be felt in my father’s heart?
Am I any more to him than a nuisance?
As yet unable to stand on my own two feet,
As he suggests, each person ought to, or must, do,
In order to be free.
Well, my freedom feels handicapped,
By my own inability to live well
To be well
To sustain a livelihood
To sustain relationships
To patiently pursue my interests and hobbies
To focus on what is most important
All the things that my father has done my whole life,
And it seems, for the whole life he lived before I was ever born,
A 39 years expanse which has made it hard for me to understand
The workings of his being.
This Father’s Day,
I’ll sit around at home, alone
Maybe writing more poems for my father
Honouring his name and accomplishments
Feeling disenchanted now and maybe more sentimental then
Son to Mother, for my Amma’s 66th birthday, 2023 (two days belated)
Dear Ammaji
This year has been a process
Of learning to let go
Of grudges, animosities
And of course, ego
To settle into a comfortable relation with you
Where we are not at each others’ throats
Not taking up a challenge of
Putting down the others’ arguments
Or point of view
Both of us practicing the lessons
And coping mechanisms
Taught in the intensive outpatient groups
You’ve taken me to,
Half-asleep, me,
(If not you),
Knocking on my door each morning,
Waking me up,
Bringing me food,
As if,
These are just things all mother’s do.
Spending hours upon hours together,
In all sorts of moods
With chemically imbalanced brain
And living in a secret world of thoughts
Known only to me
Yet feeling some strong connection
As if you knew,
Or know,
Something hidden from my view,
Or that you are my partner
In some plot to save the world,
Or to bring it down,
Or to redistribute its riches,
Fanciful indeed.
When really, we are simply dancing here,
Trying to traverse a gap In understanding.
You, coming from the sane world
Stepping into an unpredictable domain
Where you have been harmed many times before
By my madness,
Showing inestimable courage,
Seeing it as your duty as a mother,
When the hospitals do not take me in,
And left to myself I become a victim
Of disordered thoughts
And bizarre behaviour,
In private and in public,
To which you are completely beyond
any embarrassment,
Simply wishing for me to be well
In whatever ways that it might feel like
Progress is being made,
When my fate feels so tenuous
That my life may be hanging by
The delicate threads of chance.
Let me stop here and take note of
Where we are right now:
Stable, in harmony
Our relationship better than its ever been,
My gratitude for you
Not leaving me for long.
My impetuousness receding,
I would like to stay here,
For as long as I can,
Admiring your virtues,
Forgetting any foibles
Not thinking in terms of forgiveness,
Not thinking in terms of guilt or blame,
Not judging you, anymore,
Moving forward,
Taking all you have given me,
And applying it steadily
Into my life.
Letting your obsessive care
Not bother me so much anymore,
Listening to your suggestions,
Without putting up any fight,
And ultimately deciding
On my own time,
But thinking of all you’ve learned before me
And putting my faith in you,
Dad,
Kalindi and Rasik,
Extended family and supporters,
Family friends,
And giving you all the love you deserve,
Taking a page out of your book,
Which by now is a whole saga, unwritten,
Of how to love people,
How to rejoice in life,
How to suffer with dignity,
And how to live a life,
No matter how incomplete,
Or unplanned,
With grace and simplicity,
Being okay with my lot,
And doing the best I can,
To accept myself,
As only you have,
Up til now
April 6th, 2024, 11:07 PM – April 7th 12:20 AM
Dad
You are
74 years old
One short of your Dad’s age
32 years ago
When He left
And I can’t help but think that
thought-
that Our time
is
running out
But, well, isn’t that the truth?
And, has it not always been so?
Easy as it may be to repeat:
“The wise grieve neither for the living
Nor for the dead”
Or to remember Socrates’s
Lack of fear
For one last thing he confessed
not to know
I confess not to have the slightest clue
Of what life would be like
Without you
What life will be like
(Unless I beat you to the punch)
I can only,
for the intervening years,
hold fast to your quintessential
Optimism
(Or is it idealism?)
That you are granted the kindness
Of well-deserved comfort
-But returning to the present-
I count my blessings
To have the great privilege
Of counting myself
One of
your herd of students-
Not through any application process
Or sacrifice of dissertation,
As much through the happenstance
Of living most of my life under the roof
Of your cultivation
Sharing years of conversation
With millions of questions-
Each one
Answered
In earnest
With your books and lectures awaiting
The rest of my
Days
The grand privilege
Of having you (and Amma)
Be my best friends
And the sincere joy of being
Your son
Love,
Manas
May 13th, 2:07 pm – The Day After Mother’s Day
Amma
Not having had kids of my own
Let alone
Feeding them, clothing them
Dropping them off to school
Reading to them
Telling them the tales of my native land
Entertaining with pieces of my own own childhood
As you did
Connecting us to the past generations
The relatives near and far
And in-between
The friends of family
Being drawn together in the endless trail of your stories
Of drawing rooms, of train cars, at Zakaria street
In Mestin road, New York hospitals, employment law
offices, family businesses, and in Calcutta Ambassadors
Soon to be forgotten
Names and faces and places and memories
Easily out of sight and out of mind
Revived again here-
A reunion there, in overhearing your conversations
Updates, in passing
As you keep in touch with the multitudes
you love
While being stretched by the stresses of daily life
Twisted by the disasters of life
Crunched by the pressure of your work
And the people whose lives depend on you
But, learning to find balance, serenity
With your usual turmoil
Closer to accepting
That thorn of an obstacle challenging
A life sincerely enjoyed as otherwise
near-perfect:
The torment of your steadfastness
To eulogize the great ones
Who molded you
To pay respects to your Amma,
Your family departed
To speak your devotion to the written page
To escape the claustrophobic silence
Of absence
And keep alive just a little longer the laughter, the sorrows,
the personhood of those you love most, not here
Alas
And yet, write you do
About the ones present now-
Your children each Mother’s Day, each birthday
Spoiling us in yet another way
With word creations of your midnight toil
While still giving it a go (when your torment allows)
At resuscitating and prolonging the last remembrances of
your parents
A battle between creeping, subtle, vicious Time
And the eternity of your affections
Though knowing the depth of your care
And yet, not knowing the full
Expanse-
Never having been a parent-
I can only now emulate you in paying homage
To my overflowing source
June 15th, A Day Before Father’s Day
More than a philosopher
You’ve taken us far
World travels
Road trips
Car rides
And frequent transportations
To all the places you’d been
Before we came along
Introducing me to the people
Who left their marks in history
Who carved into your mind
The notable facts
That enthusiastically ooze
And are every so often repeated
In the milieu of the expressions of
Your evergreen learnings
The expanses of time you’ve covered
In books-
and in life-
The rivers of thoughts of thinkers
You’ve crossed-
But to make up your own mind
Doing the hard work
Not to be swept away by false currents
Over and over and over
Yes you’ve taken us far
But more than the erudition
You possess
More than the knowledge
You’ve shared
Your excellence in reason
It is your actions that
Resound
There are not many who can do it all
But you’ve done your work
And you’ve been there for us
For me
From day zero
Providing for the household
Reading bedtime stories
Playing games of chess
Taking us to grandma’s
To your office
To go swimming and play tennis
To baseball, soccer, and basketball games
And all the practices in-between
Tossing the baseball back and forth
Shooting hoops in the backyard
Taking us snowboarding even if it meant
You’d need shoulder surgery after
Taking care of every travel arrangement
On all of our trips
Putting up with all the difficulties
Of my immaturity
And criticism
And antics
Without any time I can remember of you
Raising your voice
Into the direst times
Visiting me everyday
At the hospital
Crossing continents to pick me up from others
Coming to every appointment
Always holding out hope
When I knew only despair
Yes you’ve taken me far
With the conscientiousness
With which you answer most all of
My calls and texts
Leaving voicemails
Sending emails
Tailoring links to fitting articles
An embrace I cannot keep up with-
Rise and shine you used to say
To wake me in my early days
Bringing joy and laying the foundation
For a foundation-free education
Where for long I felt a lack of guidance
Though, by example, you were always striving
Putting in your best work
At home
For Rasik, 27th December 2024
Our Christmas Gift
Meeting me with your close embrace
You close the distance that living 10 hours down the road cannot but create
Along with my dire transgressions of our sacred bond
In the firm forgiving warmth of your gym-conditioned arms
And for a time all feels right again in the Winfield home
Where now you the youngest host our Thanksgiving meal
Uniting us in place but also in sentiment for you-
Most adventurous, daring, and debonaire
With a sense of fashion and styled hair
And your own eye for the aesthetics of room decor
Until Amma and Dad walk through the door
Wearing your patience thin as a relentless team
Until you get angry without being mean
But overall it seems you’re doing well
From an objective point of view
Admirably doing good
Or at least working for those who are trying to
To you your extra-ordinary work feels quite ordinary
Though criss-crossing the globe with US Reps is quite a story
Exposing them to what they knew as “hell-holes”
And linking them with well-intentioned NGOs
And earning a decent living in a high-priced locale
Managing a household without a lifelong pal
So I hope for you an appreciation of your practical might
And frequent returns to your childhood delight
And not to get bogged down by disappointment
As this is a fate that all of us share
Finding an outlet in writing without fear
And investing in the ones who truly care
And not to take life too severe
Whether your friends are dispersed
Or romantic options seem a dearth
In multiple places you’ve worthily served
So keep me near, I’ll be your ear
And enjoy your time on Earth
Dad at 75
Being yourself
Via self-determination,
Maybe none of us can comprehend
Who you are,
As when reading your books,
We must be patient enough for
The overwhelming torrents of precise reason to
Resolve in relief from the world’s confusion,
We must try to remember at once all your facets
Hidden from view
By a freedom interested in more than
Self-congratulation or honor,
Even if wincing every so often at the thought of
Your life’s labor being
“Largely ignored,”
Since if more people took up your challenge,
How different the world would look.
No, we struggle to adequately
Appreciate
Your sacrifices on our behalf,
Because you’ve made endless effort look
Fashionably easy,
Groaning infrequently and only long enough for us to
Be reminded that you’re human,
Not a machine philosophizing,
But a soul suffering the physical world,
The conundrums of ego,
And the brutality of our times,
As anyone else,
Having to make your own happiness
And earn your ethical worth.
But how can we take in your full grandeur
Without having accomplished equal excellence?
And what do my thoughts of you matter,
If they are set in the landscape of opinion,
Which you long ago abandoned for a portrait of truth,
In which you, the artist, figure?
Maybe you’ve long ago achieved that level,
Of being only knowable to yourself,
Least concerned by others’ judgments,
And so in vain and in earnest,
I try again to pass a comment
Of praise,
restless with admiration,
With your impact being concrete in my life,
Though ultimately you are a mystery,
Changing forms with moods- yours and my own,
With time’s passage uncovering more and more
Revelations
Of my relative level of maturity,
Apparent in my understanding of your character,
Ever surprising yet ever most familiar
For Rasik, Christmas Eve 2025
Dear Rasik
Let’s have a heart-to-heart,
As you drink from my coffee cup art,
From pottery class as thoughtful gift- as only you and Kali and Amma and Dad can-
Returning me to the peace of inspired dreamland
When not much earlier I was in DC
Unable to relax, frightened at everything I’d see
Then on Thanksgiving you came with Kali
On thousands of miles of highway monotony,
Doing your duty like when you’d scanned
The thousands of photos of the Winfield clan
Durable, solid, loyal, and fun-loving,
Overflowing in friendships from all your earth roving
Yet still with tinges of sadness and disappointment-
If not my brother I’d hope to help in an appointment
But our bond is such that our finest days
Go back much farther than this Delhi haze,
From diving catches, silly jokes, family holidays
And the everlasting love of Georgia games,
Your gang of friends letting me enter the frame
As I falter in the wreckage of my failure in marriage,
I can only hope you learn to better manage
Your menagerie of imagined-into-reality relations
With your abundant options of every nation
Beyond romance and friendship, family lies
As the backdrop to your life’s carousel of flights
Traveling for work and months at a time
Finding it hard to settle down, whilst in your prime
Come back to this fount of Kali and me,
And Amma and Dad for the times that they’ll be,
For though you’ve immortalised our family archive,
What’s to come will be an ever longer drive
Maybe painful beyond our understanding
As ever youthful kids vulnerable to our parents
Being without them will be most challenging
So let’s stretch each moment to its fullest
I defer to you in the 2nd half (as the one who’s coolest)
No valid reasons to not stick close together
And weather whatever hell we’ll have to weather
With Kalindi as a vital link of our bond
The oldest, wisest, and worthy of our song
As I speak out of anxiety, I think of the words-
“Tension mat lena mera bhai,”
And-
“Main hoon na”
And-
The image of you walking around in Honduras
Courageous as the amalgam of Nana’s riddle of the squirrel
Made up of the multicolours of stained glass in the homes of Jesus
Your boldness, bravery, style, and well-roundedness,
Cultured without being an ass
To use but one of our Mamas’s favourite expression
Classy while empathising across class
Seeing clearly our great privilege in caste
Without letting shame prevent you from moving past
The endless deluge of horror in the world’s events
And one day finding your place, surely,
As easily as Charles Knox said to me,
Even when compared to Dad not as avid a reader:
“I saw your brother out there, he’s a leader”
For leading me back to the hopeful future
I offer you this yearly tribute, awakening from stupor
Christmas Gift for Kalindi, 2025
Dear Kali,
It seems this year, as I’ve found myself nearing You, Getting closer to a better understanding of You.
I am calling you ‘Kali’ without it sounding odd, as if I’ve taken over Amma’s mantle (Impossible)
Or maybe more so, becoming moulded into Amma’s form, through spending many days in her house and cooking her dishes, getting the Indian vegetarian culinary training that you and Rasik have already graduated from, Seeing you cooking at large parties while I’ve been happy serving just Amma, Dad, and I to make a start.
Feeling a sense of pride when I posted a recent drawing of mine where without thinking, Ma Kali and Durga Ma were evoked, crushing some figure underfoot, thinking of how, to me, the heroine’s face resembled you more, not to mention your feet trampling on the basement dwellers of Rasik’s apartment as you practiced your dance to the point of passing a kathak exam with near full marks.
More better understandings of you through the glances at your talent, in collage form (though I miss your paintings), this past year burgeoning forward with your gift for Bula, given to her when she had been made quite glum by the manner in which our relatives can talk to people with such jobs (though never you, and not as much me, though I usually order at restaurants by simply saying the bare minimum while emulating your empathy for those working a job you’d worked once)- you, of all of us, most in touch with the service industry.
And finding new work amidst a dismantling of our system of governance, doing what you can to make a living while playing it cool, playing it smart, picking and choosing your battles, finding expression within a scary system. Remembering what you’d told me once about wanting to stay around to make the nation better rather than run away to escape a worse fate than if you and people like you had stayed.
But most of all, though we haven’t found the easiest flow of conversation between us that Rasik seems to evoke for each of us, I am in admiration of what Romita correctly observed as your willing independence from the family, not at all starved of love, but being a woman who has made her own way, lived alone, and not one simply willing to settle down just for the sake of it.
Here’s to wishing for more and more better understandings of you, and to hosting you in Kolkata. Though in DC this past year, I felt safe only with you leading the way as my bodyguard to an outing outside the apartment- I hope Kolkata erases such memories and also grows into a place where you feel welcome to reside for a few weeks, a few months, or maybe even a few years, (living in an apartment on the same street?).
With love,
Manas
Christmas 2025: Gift for Chidia Mausi and Ashwini
What could I say about my Mausi and Mausaji (who is not one for titles), deserving of an adequate gift? To reciprocate their efforts would be not easy- family members who are at times wedged into the Winfield nuclear family, with Chidia enrolled in not one but two group chats featuring our full set of Fantastic Five (and one plus Vibha, to explain the plurality).
Now that I’ve made the plan to settle in Kolkata, instantly Ashwini’s eyes perk up and with laid back shrugged shoulders, an invitation to holiday in Delhi any time I feel like getting away from Kolkata. A familiarity and hospitality that goes above and beyond the ratio of calls made throughout the year when we’ve been in the US.
Mausi is fast to think up ideas for where I could find footing in the work world of Kolkata, and happy to discuss the mental health arena and my resume of modest years of experience in comparison to the vast decades Ashwini and Mausi have been at it, fighting away, chipping away at an aloof society in denial of its ills.
Also, Mausi, quick to evoke concern for my fast-changing moods, invoking my past mania when asking if I’m feeling especially excitable after I happily explain to her my tabla Masterji’s bol, reciting with expression as Amitava Masterji has always recommended, rather than my trademark manastone, which has had me suspected of being a robot, on occasions. Yet, easy enough to shake off her not-so-helpful diagnosticating when brainstorming ways to face reality and put into action a failsafe plan.
Reading birthday emails from Mausi, which are as scrumptious as Ashwini’s coastal stews, in which often I am recalled in my more original form as a baby in a carry cot brought to France, and all wacky comments and quite likely meanness is absolved and forgiven, with warm embraces and a steadfast support for me even at the expense of my other family members (when invoking family systems dynamics).
But beyond our overlap in professional fields, I have plenty more to learn from ya’ll (thinking of Ashwini as much as Chidia), true trailblazers and guiders of firebirds, deserving of a peaceful retirement or semi-retirement (as ya’ll have the streak of activism which can never rest until death do it part), and hoping to draw you to Kolkata to a home of my own, now that the family curse has slightly been lifted by the death of the blight on the Gupta family, to show solidarity if not joy at another person’s demise.
To new life and fresh breaths, far from Delhi and without worry for the Delhi pollution when we reconvene within the capital, as we can do what we can do, but as Mausi counselled me, we needn’t always live with the trait of her father, Nana, of being worriers. Again, I think of Ashwini’s shrugging shoulders and laid back, demeanour, not without its laid back opinions, which may stick as barbs in anyone paying enough attention to notice. And let us pay more attention to husband as to wife, the backbone along with the head of Rahi, a couple and team not to be trifled with, an outstanding duo, who happen to be those I call family.
Poem for Dad, Christmas Day 2025
Extolling your virtues is like trying to buy you a gift-
What has not already been said,
What could serve as something original and novel
When you’ve run the gamut of life’s trials
Succeeding at an incredible level of efficiency-
Such that Luke Johnson will say, “Your Dad’s a machine”
But, I hear your pants and modest complaints,
Always in the under-the-breath exclamations,
Not quite seeking attention,
But showing your vulnerability,
That you are a man, not a machine
Working behind the scenes so admirably,
As to hide yourself from your due rewards,
Not asking for much,
While humbly acknowledging how you’ve been,
“Largely ignored.”
What pain this must be, what suffering-
To be long suffering of Amma’s punishing moods,
(And personal conundrums,)
Meted out fierily, while you endure with quiet patience,
Though I see underneath the anger, the displeasure, the pain,
That you prudently, if not always happily, set aside
To make your move,
So that we can make our move.
Actions speaking louder than words,
The motto that defines you,
No matter how many lakhs of words you’ve let flow
Into academia and the ether of Archive.org,
And onto the modest shelves of a poor Ethiopian disciple, who understands your ultimate importance in this world
Having read his collection of Winfield to completion,
Your role in saving humanity from itself,
Of lighting the dark paths of politics towards freedom,
Of shying away from retirement to defy age,
Which I will always remind you is just a number,
For when someone is as valuable as you-
Not just for how much love I have for you in reserve,
Waiting to spring forth-
But for the determination of the world,
And begins to ‘believe’ in his own mortality,
Quick, we must huddle together to invent,
As I’ve written elsewhere: The indefinite lifespan
Because, as we run the risk of your memory replacing you,
In the form of an android that looks, sounds, and convinces others of its humanity, just like you,
Co-opted by greedy industrialists,
Your true self syphoned away to create the machine,
That Luke Johnson thinks of you as anyways,
For the sake of life, spirit, soul, self, and freedom-
You must continue to live,
And we, starting with me, have to learn to make your life a little bit easier,
Our conversations more pleasant,
Our criticisms withheld,
Our hugs more freely given,
Our appreciation honestly and liberally applied,
So that the grunts and groans and under-the-breath words,
That signify you too are suffering, may lessen
As most of all, perhaps, though with grace
You face the horror of the world with quiet dignity,
As you balance it with your fiery invocations of justice.
May this year become a little bit easier,
May you grow stronger,
Wiser,
More efficient,
Healthier,
Wealthier (because, why not?)
Gentler,
Kinder,
More patient,
Less burdened,
Less pressured,
Happier
Because why live without joy, when you’ve withstood so much?
Let your passion mingle with joviality,
To create the indefinite lifespan of jubilation,
As the world seesaws on the fulcrum of your famous head of hair, on the brink of self-destruction, and at the dawn of a new way (as yet for you unimaginably) forward.
With love and great expectations,
Manas
For Amma, Christmas Day 2025
It seems that you and I have reached that stage
Where my maladies are yours, and vice versa plagued
To temper my anxiety, I’ll have to try
To worry less and not surmise
That our time is up, while you’re being brave
With a flux of health issues and pain that rages
Arthritis, asthma, itching, scratching
Sleepless nights of work, symptoms hatching
I have to be more patient and kind
And get out of your way, let you clear your mind
When daily meditation sessions were our aim
Our routines twisted away like Darjeeling trains
Having meals together, sharing the burden of cooking
Marvelling at your feeding of the ones onlooking
Amazed at your endurance and multitasking
And compassionate labor for clients, work most taxing
Enjoying getting to be your intern for a few days
Bringing water, making the coffee, and reheating
As you steadfastly worked, in-between breathing
When I see you in one continuous flow of work,
For hours on end, no cases that you shirk,
Be it James’s endless saga
And your endlessly repeating raga
Of working for the most oppressed
Helping me when I’m most depressed
And letting me accompany you as a tabalchi would
Silently for the alap, then slowly bringing you food
As you hope to set me up in Cal,
With apartment and occupation and a pal,
I wonder how I’ll live at such a distance,
Without my daily guilty penance,
Of trying to reciprocate all your love,
A mother who’s works are as sent from above,
Underground legend, I am sure
Friends, family, and clients would concur
Not perfect by any means, but saintly still
For Gurupurnima, Masterji said you/Dad fit the bill
I bow to thee, to touch your feet
not minding you scaring me to my knees
In a childhood most sublime
Where my ex herself did remind
Vibha of how many sabzis you’d combined
Each meal when I was but a child
Working full-time, again for the reviled
So the song of you will long go on,
As long as your stories of relatives gone,
And while we’re here, we’ll commiserate
To one another at our not-so-bad fate
To have lived richly, and in togetherness
Life is for the living and we’d never want less
Sanam Manas
Manas Samuel Winfield 