I broke my mother in law's chappati stone
it lies dead in the pantry as i write
2 halves, like a broken heart
the rolling stick is widowed
and mother in law is in mourning
i blurted out the 'passing away' to her gently
she is nearing seventy,
i made her sit down with her chai
and slowly uncovered the broken stone
A cruel morning this, heartless careless daughter in law- me.
ask my maid Dhanalakshmi
and she will tell you amma bought the stone
in '85, when she went to visit Jaipur
she had been yearning for a perfect round piece of marble
ever since she saw it at her cousin's place
and after the customary round of bargaining
(she gestured rather, hindi mallom nahin)
for Rs 25 she returned triumphantly
the chappati stone was coveted by many
and i can imagine amma's smile
tread carefully in the kichen
the lemon squeezer is 50 years old
(amma's wedding gift), the nerolac container for our atta
is as old as my beloved
the tea strainer , we cant throw away because
thats the only thing father in law ever bought
way back in the 70's
the plastic bag that hangs on the corner
belonged to amma's mother(my grandmother in law)
dont use that jute moram
cause that is 49 years old
the sugar container, ha! is older than me.
every corner of amma's kitchen has a story
memories hang like cobwebs
and every spoon is a friend
every mud fish vessel a treasure
tread carefully in this much loved kitchen
Saturday, October 09, 2010
velvet kohl
One half of my hanky,
the one I tore,To tie my finger
when I cut it by accident
The other I had to give you,
for you cut your hand too
And held it close to mine,
to see if it was the same.
The colour of our blood.
You were the gardener's son.
Seventh I think.
And I, the doctor's pampered middle one.
You, a Nigger, and I was then Indian.
We,
in an African estate of corn fields,
papaya trees and yam
I didn't like you at first, for I was only five.
Plucked out from emerald pastures.
From soft wet mud.
Yanked off from the grandfather's knee,
where I felt his bristly cheek
On the back of my hand.
Warmth of his love on my heart.
Silver anklets I tied for my dance lesson,
glass bracelets with dots of the rainbow from the annual fair,
Monsoon rains that opened the heavens so we could canoe in paddy fields.
You didn't know them.
You under a cruel sun in oversized beige dunkers.
Afterwards your black became permanent Velvet Kohl.
On my Eyelashes.
You would crouch under my window for the boiled egg at half past seven
handed clandestinely down
From the dining room
For I didn't like eggs and you did
When Big Sis climbed the deceitful papaya with parents gone on another shopping spree
A Naïve midday snack. Crunchy, not too ripe, just right.
Then she got stuck.You brought out the Dunlop. A safe landing.
And We made the top of the bookshelf Appollo1 and poor Dunlop the moon.
You didn't read Enid Blyton.
But you knew the secret password in to our hearts
Then we had to Change from Terrible Three to Fantastic Four
We tried to get you read Famous Five under the water tank.
And you taught us to catch bush rats.
And eat toasted grasshoppers.
And to run. For you ran faster than the wind.
Then you who taught me to ride the old bicycle with no brakes
After you learnt it by riding it downhill till you bounced off the iron gate
Your smile when you picked yourself carried a little red on your knee and the purple on your arm.
For you always wore your Soul on your face.
And every time we got pocket money,
we'd run to the wall by the corner as I climbed over to buy bubble gum I would step on you bent as my foothold
I loved to come by your tin shed under the orange tree
And swirl the dead snakes you had caught for dinner,
while you were roasting corn over coal embers
And then we couldn't run fast enough,
I stood under the orange tree again with a cardboard box
books, tears,
my thirteen year old heart in it.
You didn't have anything to give.
You didn't know. And I think I didn't too.
But I took your black. For keeps.
But our truck sped away with our washing machine food processor and Sony TV
I think we left behind a little pepper, dhanyia, tamarind, pickled bottles of vain
And tightly wrapped up prejudices we had bought from home eight years ago.
You followed us in your cycle without brakes,
I took a snapshot of you framed in the car window.
I didn't have to.
Because no monsoon shower could wash my velvet kohl away.
From my eyelashes.
From my heart.
And my half of the handkerchief?
I have kept it. Use it for my soul.
I was Indian. Christian. Fairer. Richer. And you wiped it all away.
the one I tore,To tie my finger
when I cut it by accident
The other I had to give you,
for you cut your hand too
And held it close to mine,
to see if it was the same.
The colour of our blood.
You were the gardener's son.
Seventh I think.
And I, the doctor's pampered middle one.
You, a Nigger, and I was then Indian.
We,
in an African estate of corn fields,
papaya trees and yam
I didn't like you at first, for I was only five.
Plucked out from emerald pastures.
From soft wet mud.
Yanked off from the grandfather's knee,
where I felt his bristly cheek
On the back of my hand.
Warmth of his love on my heart.
Silver anklets I tied for my dance lesson,
glass bracelets with dots of the rainbow from the annual fair,
Monsoon rains that opened the heavens so we could canoe in paddy fields.
You didn't know them.
You under a cruel sun in oversized beige dunkers.
Afterwards your black became permanent Velvet Kohl.
On my Eyelashes.
You would crouch under my window for the boiled egg at half past seven
handed clandestinely down
From the dining room
For I didn't like eggs and you did
When Big Sis climbed the deceitful papaya with parents gone on another shopping spree
A Naïve midday snack. Crunchy, not too ripe, just right.
Then she got stuck.You brought out the Dunlop. A safe landing.
And We made the top of the bookshelf Appollo1 and poor Dunlop the moon.
You didn't read Enid Blyton.
But you knew the secret password in to our hearts
Then we had to Change from Terrible Three to Fantastic Four
We tried to get you read Famous Five under the water tank.
And you taught us to catch bush rats.
And eat toasted grasshoppers.
And to run. For you ran faster than the wind.
Then you who taught me to ride the old bicycle with no brakes
After you learnt it by riding it downhill till you bounced off the iron gate
Your smile when you picked yourself carried a little red on your knee and the purple on your arm.
For you always wore your Soul on your face.
And every time we got pocket money,
we'd run to the wall by the corner as I climbed over to buy bubble gum I would step on you bent as my foothold
I loved to come by your tin shed under the orange tree
And swirl the dead snakes you had caught for dinner,
while you were roasting corn over coal embers
And then we couldn't run fast enough,
I stood under the orange tree again with a cardboard box
books, tears,
my thirteen year old heart in it.
You didn't have anything to give.
You didn't know. And I think I didn't too.
But I took your black. For keeps.
But our truck sped away with our washing machine food processor and Sony TV
I think we left behind a little pepper, dhanyia, tamarind, pickled bottles of vain
And tightly wrapped up prejudices we had bought from home eight years ago.
You followed us in your cycle without brakes,
I took a snapshot of you framed in the car window.
I didn't have to.
Because no monsoon shower could wash my velvet kohl away.
From my eyelashes.
From my heart.
And my half of the handkerchief?
I have kept it. Use it for my soul.
I was Indian. Christian. Fairer. Richer. And you wiped it all away.
india
I taste of the murky waters of the ganga
That washes the souls of the dead
Find me in the Kumb Mela , somewhere among
Mercedes, incense , the standing sadhu and lady nicotine
If you could kiss the lips of the drugged infant, borrowed for an hour
Sleeping in some beggars bag, a sari end tightly clenched by its unaware fist
when you stop for the traffic red
taste the helplessness , know its me.
And in the languid Forest ranges of the south, smell of cinnamon and clove
And in some odd temple under the waterfall, the drunk handsome pujari
With a flower in his ear, if you could taste his song , hear the anguish of the tenders of the earth, You would know its me
Find me in Govinda’s colorful suit, in Kareena’s pout
Taste me in the sacred spaces of the golden temple,
In the pathos of the wail that cuts across the evening sky
From the stained glass of the masjid,
Wonder if my sorrow could join a flock of white geese in a precise v
And fly until it found a sunset and never return to me.
Taste me in the mujra in some dingy brothel ,
Drink me in the pure strains of the gayatri mantra too
If you could taste the robin white of a nun’s attire hung out to dry
You would know its me ,
If its raining and you are dozing in a train homebound
And you wake up to find it swimming , don’t nudge yourself, you are not dreaming
And if in the obscure Rural you find passengers solemnly
Sit like mute Budhas Atop full rickety buses, don’t be alarmed
for it happens in India
Anything goes around here
Don’t sing about the life after I want to tell the church choir
Because there is no heaven. Sing only for this morning
For that’s only what we have . Before noon some of us will be neatly tucked
In mother nature’s four poster bed , her brown covers drawn tightly over our heads
And by dusk the sobs and sighs will melt into the benign black.
Because in India anything goes.
Don’t mourn for me for you didn’t cry for Kashmir.
Don’t wear black for a day if you didn’t hear my silent cries over the years.
I was burning but today you saw the smoke.
Don’t cry for me. For you don’t even know me.
That washes the souls of the dead
Find me in the Kumb Mela , somewhere among
Mercedes, incense , the standing sadhu and lady nicotine
If you could kiss the lips of the drugged infant, borrowed for an hour
Sleeping in some beggars bag, a sari end tightly clenched by its unaware fist
when you stop for the traffic red
taste the helplessness , know its me.
And in the languid Forest ranges of the south, smell of cinnamon and clove
And in some odd temple under the waterfall, the drunk handsome pujari
With a flower in his ear, if you could taste his song , hear the anguish of the tenders of the earth, You would know its me
Find me in Govinda’s colorful suit, in Kareena’s pout
Taste me in the sacred spaces of the golden temple,
In the pathos of the wail that cuts across the evening sky
From the stained glass of the masjid,
Wonder if my sorrow could join a flock of white geese in a precise v
And fly until it found a sunset and never return to me.
Taste me in the mujra in some dingy brothel ,
Drink me in the pure strains of the gayatri mantra too
If you could taste the robin white of a nun’s attire hung out to dry
You would know its me ,
If its raining and you are dozing in a train homebound
And you wake up to find it swimming , don’t nudge yourself, you are not dreaming
And if in the obscure Rural you find passengers solemnly
Sit like mute Budhas Atop full rickety buses, don’t be alarmed
for it happens in India
Anything goes around here
Don’t sing about the life after I want to tell the church choir
Because there is no heaven. Sing only for this morning
For that’s only what we have . Before noon some of us will be neatly tucked
In mother nature’s four poster bed , her brown covers drawn tightly over our heads
And by dusk the sobs and sighs will melt into the benign black.
Because in India anything goes.
Don’t mourn for me for you didn’t cry for Kashmir.
Don’t wear black for a day if you didn’t hear my silent cries over the years.
I was burning but today you saw the smoke.
Don’t cry for me. For you don’t even know me.
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