Ugh! Houseflies!
Abhorred, despised.
Faces wrinkle in horror,
Frowns mar smooth foreheads.
Shrieks and groans galore.
But what would we do otherwise
to the mountains of rotting flesh?
The tons of shit?
Quivering jellies, solid hard stools?
One alights on my nose,
The sunlight glinting off
its gauzy rainbow wings.
I smile in awe and gratitude.
At least, I try to.
A paean breaks forth....
Houseflies must be loved and respected.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Mothers and Sons
What is it that makes mothers
flaunt the private parts
of their baby boys in public?
What is it that makes women
coo over these tiny men
with their despicable male organs?
Little girls are meant to be covered
with frills and laces!
But,little boys, in private or public,
Theirs is for the whole world
To see, to admire, to envy!
Who should I envy? What?
Their male-ness? or, the women
who created such strength?
It stumps me!
flaunt the private parts
of their baby boys in public?
What is it that makes women
coo over these tiny men
with their despicable male organs?
Little girls are meant to be covered
with frills and laces!
But,little boys, in private or public,
Theirs is for the whole world
To see, to admire, to envy!
Who should I envy? What?
Their male-ness? or, the women
who created such strength?
It stumps me!
Sunday, October 11, 2009
A co-traveller
The bell rings once.
The bus stops.
Faces,
pallid in the bright warmth,
Turn
Old and lean,
He steps down
Into the cold.
The bell rings twice.
The bus moves on.
I turn,
I see him,
Through the mud-stained glass,
Fading away,
Into the swirling night.
Old and lean.
A speck of dust,
Swept away,
By the wind and the rain.
(July 1996)
The bus stops.
Faces,
pallid in the bright warmth,
Turn
Old and lean,
He steps down
Into the cold.
The bell rings twice.
The bus moves on.
I turn,
I see him,
Through the mud-stained glass,
Fading away,
Into the swirling night.
Old and lean.
A speck of dust,
Swept away,
By the wind and the rain.
(July 1996)
SMS
I yearn for the face-
behind the words-
The printed words
that fill my phone.
Words that create
Paradise or Hell,
Pain or Joy,
as my eyes greedily devour them.
Words that create
out of nothing
a nook, a cranny
for me to rest
for a while.
Sometimes
A moment of fantasy
collides
with reality
I can feel her then,
sense her-
close by-
And i reach out
to touch airy nothing!
behind the words-
The printed words
that fill my phone.
Words that create
Paradise or Hell,
Pain or Joy,
as my eyes greedily devour them.
Words that create
out of nothing
a nook, a cranny
for me to rest
for a while.
Sometimes
A moment of fantasy
collides
with reality
I can feel her then,
sense her-
close by-
And i reach out
to touch airy nothing!
Monday, August 10, 2009
Palaniappan
When it started to rain, Palaniappan woke up with a start and rolled away from his already fast-soaking mat. His feet brushed against Chembakam’s cheeks. Its was dark and the tiny room with its cow-dung smeared floor smelt of the six warm human bodies lying inert within it. Sinking back into the depths of his exhausted sleep, his young mind was aware of the emptiness in his stomach but that was something he was more familiar within his eight years’ existence than anything else.
Palaniappan slept. He was walking on soft green grass. It was soft to his bony feet. The tiny dew drops sparkled so brightly in the morning sunlight it hurt his eyes to look at them. Chembakam, his favorite sister, was just behind him with her huge sad eyes and dry matted hair. As far as Palaniappan could remember, ever since she was bron, three years ago, she had had brown matted hair. He loved her with all his tiny weary heart. She has been so sick that day.
They were walking on the soft green grass. The air was sharp with the smell of wild flowers sprinkled all over the meadow. Palaniappan’s stomach as usual was loudly declaring its protest at being neglected for so long. Palaniappan looked down at the bright little flowers wistfully. He wished he could eat them. Maybe, he should try that one day. First, he would eat the pink ones. No, he would give the best looking ones to Chembakam. He would be content with the violet and white ones. The little whote butterflies flitting among the flowers would be good too.
His feet started to ache. Why didn’t the green grass end? The trees around the meadow seemed to recede with every step he took. The shining bright green carpet was growing bigger and bigger. Chembakam started to cry. She wanted to see Amma. But Amma had to work. Amma was always working. Her tummy had again started to bulge. It looked strange on her skeleton like body. When it became bigger, she would lie down in the corner of their hut for days and days. Then, the aching emptiness in Palaniappan’s tummy would get worse. Then, he must remember to come to this meadow. He would eat the white and violet flowers. Chembakam could have the pink ones. What about Murugappan with his squint eyes and one lame foot?
Murugappan was too young to eat flowers. Besides, how could they lug him along with them when they themselves were so tired, so weary, so exhausted. Azhaki was always crying. It was a dull, monotonous humming that made Palaniappan want to close his ears with pebbles. He had quite a good collection of pebbles which he kept in an old rusty biscuit tin inside the only trunk in the hut-an ancient colorless thing that had no locks. Thatw as where the family kept their ‘personal belongings’- a small pouch of cheap beads, two pieces of turmeric from the nearby Maasani Amman Kovil, a faded red blouse which Palaniappan’s amma, Kasthuri had worn for her wedding, a single brass bangle, a cheap jotter pen the ink of which had long since solidified. He found it one day on the way to the sugarcane fields where his Amma was working- and lots and lots of dreams along with limitless, unbridled poverty. Sometimes, he would choose a nice round pebble and put it into his mouth, sucking on it for hours on end.
Once he fooled Muthuvelu, the only friend he had, who lived on the other side of the village in a thatched hut just like his. He told him that he had managed to get one of those things wrapped in brightly colored papers that filled a big Jar in the only shop in the village, which belonged to Chinnasami, who always dressed in spotless white dhoti and ‘banian’.
Muthuvelu told him that his mother was having babies every year because of his father. He said he hated his father because he always came home drunk at night and for the next half-an-hour there would be pandemonium in the little hut while his father thrashed his mother. Muthuvelu’s mother had just had her sixth baby two months ago. Palaniappan was confused. How did his mother have her babies? He believed her when she gently told him that his father had gone far away to a land beyond the sea. He had gone to bring them food-lots of food-hot, delicious rice and sambar. When he came, they could eat and eat and eat. Palaniappan was waiting for that day.
Was that why they were walking on the soft, green grass now? To go to him in that land beyond the sea? Suddenly, Palaniappan wanted the soft, green carpet to end. The bright velvety grass with the sparkling dew drops here and there was hurting his eyes and now, his feet too. Chembakam started to cry louder. Muthuvelu always spoke of the rice and rasam which he had once a day-more than enough. He was never hungry! He said it was because he had a father. Palaniappan, too, had to find his father.
He was walking on hard, hot concrete; he looked down at the dirty, grey slabs of the pavement. When had he last seen one? Somewhere in the past, he didn’t exactly remember when. He remembered seeing lots of grass and shops and lots of well-dressed people.
It was so hot, he could not feel the heat rising up through his feet unto his knees and from there to his now wailing stomach. There were ‘eating shops’ along the pavement during the ten-day festival at the Maasani Amman Kovil. He loved to walk past them-the mouth0watering smells made him feel weak with a kind of mysterious, inexplicable ecstasy. Cars whizzed by.
The sound of screeching brakes and startled yells sent fear shooting through his veins.
“Where was Chembakam?”
There was a huge crowd gathered near the front of a shining red car.
“Where was Chembakam?”
His heart was bursting. He couldn’t breathe. She was to be seen nowhere. Why was the car so red? He couldn’t see beyond the crowded legs. Thin legs. Fat legs. Smooth shiny legs. Scaly legs. Fair legs. Brown legs. Dark chocolate legs.
“Where was Chembakam?”
Palaniappan started shouting her name, frantically trying to squeeze in through the legs. He must give her the pink flowers. He wanted to take the hunger out of her eyes; out of his stomach. Where was his father? How should he call his father?
“Appa…appa…”
The cry went across the meadow. It overtook the fats receding trees and passed into silence. Appa…. The steaming concrete cracked. His voice went deep down into the dark earth. The crack grew wider and wider. It was like looking into a gigantic, gaping moth. He was falling…
The cow-dung floor was wet. Chembakam was crying in the darkness. His mother was snoring gently. It was pitch dark. Palaniappan groped in the darkness. Where was Chembakam? Fear made him sweat. Her soft sobs rang clearly in his ears. Where was she? She had been so sick. He called her in a frightened whisper. The soft weeping continued. He groped about wildly. But not once did his fingers fall on those-oh, so very familiar matted hair or thin fragile body.
Palaniappan jumped up. “Amma…Amma.” She groaned in reply. He could not see beyond the crowded legs. He could not reach the trees. If he could see…if he could run fast… he would be able to see her. Palaniappan started creaming-
“Chembakam….Chembakam.”
It was raining heavily now he no longer had a stomach under him, only a ball of fire. He would eat the butterflies too,
“Chembakam…Appa….Appa….Chembakam…!”
The weeping continued. Softly. Sadly. It went round him in circles that grew wider and wider, farther and farther from him.
Palaniappan slept. He was walking on soft green grass. It was soft to his bony feet. The tiny dew drops sparkled so brightly in the morning sunlight it hurt his eyes to look at them. Chembakam, his favorite sister, was just behind him with her huge sad eyes and dry matted hair. As far as Palaniappan could remember, ever since she was bron, three years ago, she had had brown matted hair. He loved her with all his tiny weary heart. She has been so sick that day.
They were walking on the soft green grass. The air was sharp with the smell of wild flowers sprinkled all over the meadow. Palaniappan’s stomach as usual was loudly declaring its protest at being neglected for so long. Palaniappan looked down at the bright little flowers wistfully. He wished he could eat them. Maybe, he should try that one day. First, he would eat the pink ones. No, he would give the best looking ones to Chembakam. He would be content with the violet and white ones. The little whote butterflies flitting among the flowers would be good too.
His feet started to ache. Why didn’t the green grass end? The trees around the meadow seemed to recede with every step he took. The shining bright green carpet was growing bigger and bigger. Chembakam started to cry. She wanted to see Amma. But Amma had to work. Amma was always working. Her tummy had again started to bulge. It looked strange on her skeleton like body. When it became bigger, she would lie down in the corner of their hut for days and days. Then, the aching emptiness in Palaniappan’s tummy would get worse. Then, he must remember to come to this meadow. He would eat the white and violet flowers. Chembakam could have the pink ones. What about Murugappan with his squint eyes and one lame foot?
Murugappan was too young to eat flowers. Besides, how could they lug him along with them when they themselves were so tired, so weary, so exhausted. Azhaki was always crying. It was a dull, monotonous humming that made Palaniappan want to close his ears with pebbles. He had quite a good collection of pebbles which he kept in an old rusty biscuit tin inside the only trunk in the hut-an ancient colorless thing that had no locks. Thatw as where the family kept their ‘personal belongings’- a small pouch of cheap beads, two pieces of turmeric from the nearby Maasani Amman Kovil, a faded red blouse which Palaniappan’s amma, Kasthuri had worn for her wedding, a single brass bangle, a cheap jotter pen the ink of which had long since solidified. He found it one day on the way to the sugarcane fields where his Amma was working- and lots and lots of dreams along with limitless, unbridled poverty. Sometimes, he would choose a nice round pebble and put it into his mouth, sucking on it for hours on end.
Once he fooled Muthuvelu, the only friend he had, who lived on the other side of the village in a thatched hut just like his. He told him that he had managed to get one of those things wrapped in brightly colored papers that filled a big Jar in the only shop in the village, which belonged to Chinnasami, who always dressed in spotless white dhoti and ‘banian’.
Muthuvelu told him that his mother was having babies every year because of his father. He said he hated his father because he always came home drunk at night and for the next half-an-hour there would be pandemonium in the little hut while his father thrashed his mother. Muthuvelu’s mother had just had her sixth baby two months ago. Palaniappan was confused. How did his mother have her babies? He believed her when she gently told him that his father had gone far away to a land beyond the sea. He had gone to bring them food-lots of food-hot, delicious rice and sambar. When he came, they could eat and eat and eat. Palaniappan was waiting for that day.
Was that why they were walking on the soft, green grass now? To go to him in that land beyond the sea? Suddenly, Palaniappan wanted the soft, green carpet to end. The bright velvety grass with the sparkling dew drops here and there was hurting his eyes and now, his feet too. Chembakam started to cry louder. Muthuvelu always spoke of the rice and rasam which he had once a day-more than enough. He was never hungry! He said it was because he had a father. Palaniappan, too, had to find his father.
He was walking on hard, hot concrete; he looked down at the dirty, grey slabs of the pavement. When had he last seen one? Somewhere in the past, he didn’t exactly remember when. He remembered seeing lots of grass and shops and lots of well-dressed people.
It was so hot, he could not feel the heat rising up through his feet unto his knees and from there to his now wailing stomach. There were ‘eating shops’ along the pavement during the ten-day festival at the Maasani Amman Kovil. He loved to walk past them-the mouth0watering smells made him feel weak with a kind of mysterious, inexplicable ecstasy. Cars whizzed by.
The sound of screeching brakes and startled yells sent fear shooting through his veins.
“Where was Chembakam?”
There was a huge crowd gathered near the front of a shining red car.
“Where was Chembakam?”
His heart was bursting. He couldn’t breathe. She was to be seen nowhere. Why was the car so red? He couldn’t see beyond the crowded legs. Thin legs. Fat legs. Smooth shiny legs. Scaly legs. Fair legs. Brown legs. Dark chocolate legs.
“Where was Chembakam?”
Palaniappan started shouting her name, frantically trying to squeeze in through the legs. He must give her the pink flowers. He wanted to take the hunger out of her eyes; out of his stomach. Where was his father? How should he call his father?
“Appa…appa…”
The cry went across the meadow. It overtook the fats receding trees and passed into silence. Appa…. The steaming concrete cracked. His voice went deep down into the dark earth. The crack grew wider and wider. It was like looking into a gigantic, gaping moth. He was falling…
The cow-dung floor was wet. Chembakam was crying in the darkness. His mother was snoring gently. It was pitch dark. Palaniappan groped in the darkness. Where was Chembakam? Fear made him sweat. Her soft sobs rang clearly in his ears. Where was she? She had been so sick. He called her in a frightened whisper. The soft weeping continued. He groped about wildly. But not once did his fingers fall on those-oh, so very familiar matted hair or thin fragile body.
Palaniappan jumped up. “Amma…Amma.” She groaned in reply. He could not see beyond the crowded legs. He could not reach the trees. If he could see…if he could run fast… he would be able to see her. Palaniappan started creaming-
“Chembakam….Chembakam.”
It was raining heavily now he no longer had a stomach under him, only a ball of fire. He would eat the butterflies too,
“Chembakam…Appa….Appa….Chembakam…!”
The weeping continued. Softly. Sadly. It went round him in circles that grew wider and wider, farther and farther from him.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
In the event of my death
In the event of my death,
I want the windows to be shut,
And the curtains to be drawn.
Let the door be opened
Only for mourners
In the event of my death,
I want voices hushed,
And the lights dimmed.
Let the kitchen be cold and empty
And the courtyard unswept.
In the event of my death,
I want a lamp lit,
And fresh flowers everywhere.
Let the best incense sticks be burnt
Three at a time.
In the event of my death
Let there be dirges all over,
Wafting in and out of the rooms,
So, now, do you see--
How important
I think I am?
-: June 2002 :-
I want the windows to be shut,
And the curtains to be drawn.
Let the door be opened
Only for mourners
In the event of my death,
I want voices hushed,
And the lights dimmed.
Let the kitchen be cold and empty
And the courtyard unswept.
In the event of my death,
I want a lamp lit,
And fresh flowers everywhere.
Let the best incense sticks be burnt
Three at a time.
In the event of my death
Let there be dirges all over,
Wafting in and out of the rooms,
So, now, do you see--
How important
I think I am?
-: June 2002 :-
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
The Deja Vu Trilogy
Deja Vu
Hot bright forenoons
depress me
the sound of the traffic
far away
i strain to hear
the cackling of hens
(that's another story)
Instead, honking horns
rattling fans
the little too loud
humming of air conditioners nearby
Then why
Deja Vu?
Its more than thirty years
seems like ages
it was fun then
spending hot bright forenoons
in a new town
the sounds
the odd lost feeling
the same
but there was an undercurrent
of expectation
the prospect of packing up
and leaving soon
another new town
now the world has
narrowed down
the circumference of familiarities
forbid me
from stepping beyond
somewhere deep inside
lies asleep
a travel bug
once in a while it opens its eyes
but that's all!
I watch
the world move on
I do not.
I am
stationary.
Stagnant.
Hot bright forenoons
depress me
Deja Vu?
Where did i hear
the same sounds?
Smell the same scents?
It was late morning.
The air is bright and heavy,
far back in the distant past.
Was it forty years ago?
or Thirty-nine?
Lonely late mornings.
sound of
bustling activity in the kitchen.
A hen always cackling, long and loud
a few houses away.
Were my feelings
the same then?
Deja Vu, isn't it?
Deja Vu!
Bright, breezy forenoons
always make me nostalgic-
yearning for some vague
hazy--lazy-forenoon in the distant past.
For faces--sounds--voices--moments
that seem like they are
on the other side
of Eternity.
Its not just a yearning.
Too mild a term -that!
its a feeling
that overpowers my being-
every atom in my body.
A moment
when the past, the present, the future
converge.
-:August 2004:-
Hot bright forenoons
depress me
the sound of the traffic
far away
i strain to hear
the cackling of hens
(that's another story)
Instead, honking horns
rattling fans
the little too loud
humming of air conditioners nearby
Then why
Deja Vu?
Its more than thirty years
seems like ages
it was fun then
spending hot bright forenoons
in a new town
the sounds
the odd lost feeling
the same
but there was an undercurrent
of expectation
the prospect of packing up
and leaving soon
another new town
now the world has
narrowed down
the circumference of familiarities
forbid me
from stepping beyond
somewhere deep inside
lies asleep
a travel bug
once in a while it opens its eyes
but that's all!
I watch
the world move on
I do not.
I am
stationary.
Stagnant.
Hot bright forenoons
depress me
Deja Vu?
Where did i hear
the same sounds?
Smell the same scents?
It was late morning.
The air is bright and heavy,
far back in the distant past.
Was it forty years ago?
or Thirty-nine?
Lonely late mornings.
sound of
bustling activity in the kitchen.
A hen always cackling, long and loud
a few houses away.
Were my feelings
the same then?
Deja Vu, isn't it?
Deja Vu!
Bright, breezy forenoons
always make me nostalgic-
yearning for some vague
hazy--lazy-forenoon in the distant past.
For faces--sounds--voices--moments
that seem like they are
on the other side
of Eternity.
Its not just a yearning.
Too mild a term -that!
its a feeling
that overpowers my being-
every atom in my body.
A moment
when the past, the present, the future
converge.
-:August 2004:-
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