My Lift Operator’s Onam
My Lift Operator
Was unusually moody ,
a few days away from onam
Otherwise she is dignified with gentle ways
Always with a pleasant smile or word
For me on my busy days
On probing she said” Oh, its just that’s onam,
And alone in my basement chair
iam flooded with memories of happier times
past onams meant a house full of brothers , thier families,
and a courtyard with a welcome flower carpet for mahabali
“ Till an accident wrecked my life , she said
"oh that explained her slouching gait
there are 20 stiches on her face, her eyes has lens implants
her left leg has a steel rod, her elbow she cannot bend
through painfully expensive recontructive surgey her family gave her back her face
her expenses a unending abbyss finalling cut every human bond
Bed ridden for a year, slipping in and out of consciousness
on death's door, orphaned
Jesus walked in
through the tangled tubes and gauze
Stroked her head and said” you will be well”
And I was.”
"head injury, dementia, you might laugh but
it was Jesus , in white dhoti , whiter locks
and i can feel his hand on my head still", she said
“I cant complain”, she mused,
“I lost my life and it was given back to me.
But its onam and I am without a house or a courtyard
To lay out flowers for mahabali”. For a nair matriarch this must be hard,
But for me Mahabali was a long dead king and onam a holiday
To cook vegetarian and shop for clothes.
As I left her there amongst an assortment of bikes
The little stitched up lift operator and her tall sorrow.
Life had shaken her inside out but could not touch her heart
where a selfless banished king still lives, her love for him intact
and even in the madness she knew the sacrifice of the cross long ago
and the benevolence of the bowed trampled royal head- were one
This onam made grim with the U.P riots and Delhi verdict
My lift operator friend , fret not
If jesus of nazereth crossed religions and seas to ease your pain
Mahabali is just a few blocks away and when he visits you
To welcome him don’t bother about the flowers
All the colours of your heart will do .

An ode to the Morning star(Varghese's Batmintion club)

Early mornings are a no for me, Early mornings are alien to me
The July rains are a monstrous lot
Killing the romance of kerala monsoons
Have our once soft rain gods gone rash?
the birds in our neighbours mango tree
sit drenched and call morose wake up tunes
their summer songs forgotten
to the incessant mad melody of falling showers
my sprained right foot
refuses to wake up,, maybe its tendonitis
or an early onset of osteoporosis
or maybe it’s the pain of being abandoned at dawn?
I limp to the cold kitchen to cook common breakfast for a polygonal family
an obstinate toddler, Sibling teenagers who have contrasting tastes
2 senile in laws who audit my idlis and sambhar
with the fervour of certifying agencies and of course a ravenous husband
Breakfast done and lunch tiffins still to pack
and i sprint upstairs to wake my offsprings from slumber
my 4 year old is a curled up into little ball, impossible to unfurl
my teens so lost in their world of dreams to hear my yells
I balance lunch boxes, umbrellas, my little boy and coffee mugs
cajole the kids from bed, maybe with a blow or two
weave a magical story to help my son drink his milk
then suddenly it’s over, the buses arrive and the morning rush is over.
It’s just a few hours but mornings get the better of me
My yells echo in our tiny street, my blood pressure peaks
My neighbours fathom terrible things and my in laws cringe
It’s just a few years I tell myself and my mornings will be calm once again
the cold morning breeze brings in with it my smiling spouse
in his sports gear he is still a boy, far away from the domestic chaos
his world suddenly shrunk , uncomplicated
where anything is possible. triumphant and peaceful
The 2 mobiles lie silent at his side, There is no persuasive marketing talk
For now all the demons of the day are dead.
For now It’s just a bright morning , full of promise
Corporate battle wounds healed . Spirit revived for another day.
morning star, kindly light, shine on
for balding heads need the safe sanctuary of play
a hard fought win ,some friends to taunt
to make light of life and a place to be your own true self.

Rains , please

Summer just scorched me
I am burnt, scalded now

A little too bright this summer sun
Never tiring, this heat

Memories of rains , soothing winds
Light dreams and laughter


Return to me , please, with the june rains
Lightness, cooling greens , youth


Innocence , hope , aspiring thoughts
Lie dead for now this summer
,

Rains, return to me my song
And find my smile if you can

on breaking my mil's chappati stone

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

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.

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.

the inheritance

A choked river,
dead paddy field
and a treasured childhood.


We didn't get the whole river though
Some big guy got it closed off
Slashed it off. The river lies bleeding in our paddy field.


My mother inherited 45 cents of an unwhole river
an eunuch paddy field too flooded to cultivate
15 kms precisely from Infopark- here the earth smells of money.


Iam 38 this year and 30 years ago this piece of land was loved
a welcome river trickled through green paddy during Summer
and during the rains it was left alone.

left wild to dissolve into the river
To sprout the wildest lotues,transluscent dragon flies
a perfect watery perch for long legged storks


I have walked this peice of land then when it smelt and looked like melting chocolate
when planting began and after seen it transformed into an emerald green
and therafter into golden harvest. how could i have missed it, it was truly gold - that hay.


the land changes and people change too.
i have changed but memories stay.
of this sad pool of water and the dead field beneath.

nothing happens just like that. maybe i have been left with this to brood.
not to belt out a mourning song and then just leave. Maybe loved ones in the other world
deliberated that somehow I could hear the pining of the river and the earth

are they telling me to stay unchanged. the winds around seem to know me
they envelope me in a caress. let the river flow again they sing.
let the earth wear emerald once more, let us start anew our search for the real gold.

its 12 midnight.
while day sleeps, the night is awake with windy dreams
lashing on the edge of your conscious
thoughts disconnected falling and then away
softy licking ,softly tingling me in my half-sleep and then dying

and i sit , selfish. Because i thirst a turquoise poetry wave
a lashing of exquisite words. of this world yet not quite
for the day: kills every thought. there is no more perfume in words
maybe it is that the sun in december -scorches dreaminees
cruel sun and added to it- slits in the ozone

nowadays i brood too much on plastics.
depressing activities like garbage sorting occupy too much time
depressing herons sit around the open drainage that flows next door
their long pink beaks beaten down, they fold their majestic wings-hiding them
wary of opening such visual luzury in such darbiness

eleventh hour citizens cannot write much poetry, i guess
we know too much and yet we cling and clutch on to our laziness
the world is crumbling-but slowly. and we hurry on
the herons are dead , the trees mourn silently ,
their cries stretched out from dried branches

so who are you looking for?

didn't you get it yet?
it's you.
one person.
Yes the entire universe, 100 billion people
is you.
look around, above and below
you, you and you.
The people on the bus,
the burka clad muslim woman with her vegetables
is you,
the man who washes your toilet in office is you
krishna is you,
and jesus and allah live in you
you pray to yourself'
you wound yourself
you plot and scheme and cut yourself down
only you.
one person - the voice of the earth
earth spirit alive in you
fine . now you can smile
sit back ,close the book by Vivekananda.
listen. nobody else. its all you.
all of us are one person.
Usain bolt is you, mohamad ali is you
khalil is you
beethoven is you, hilter is you
khayam is you, yesudas is you,
madonna is you, geoge bush is you
obama is you, osama is you.
shiva and brahma is you.

when you light them candles all 38 of them , its for you
when you are asleep
your dreams leave you
creep out of a stuffy world and become everywhere and everyone
its simple now isn't

the howl of the dogs , the sound of rain
is you
life is you. unbroken chain of life within you
all the goodness in you
beauty and sacredness
and every misery too
there is ugliness and that too is you

you have the mysterious key in the palm of your hand
you know it now that iam you and you are me
will you stop searching outside now?
can you look within , because all the answers lie within
you.

and finally -Love

love was never meant to be a poem
for love was above words , a fleeing bird
love can wait, first let me know life

getting to know life takes a lifetime
tasting life was humbling
life rubs you down , changes perceptions

and then you understand that
its all about love
love and life - is one

to love is when you discover
that a God lives in you
multiple limbed, peaceful stone divinity

love helps you reach spritual heights
no sadhu ever thought of
love cleanses your heart , makes a better you

love is no emotion
love is the quiet strenght
love is a giver,

to be loved is a lesser gift
the true treasure is to learn how to love
its a reward and an end

love is a journey within
love is a struggle
and love is a revealation

love teaches you life
and you are happy when your loved ones are too
love humbles you, love teaches you selflessness

love ? what do you gain
true love will gain you a truer self
true love exudes a beauty that difficult to conceal

loose everything to love
and you stand to gain happiness
and a life that is worth

a poem for you life

and finally i fall in love with you
life.
iam all sweet surrender .
This morning i listened to a hindu bhajan
in a telungu
i didn't catch the words but the tone
was an ode to life
the rising and falling of the raagas
and i sang it in heart for you
in the language of a sacred hymn
life.
cant have enough of you
you have spun this web around me
silken and complete
and i am content to be your prisoner
drink me in, life
let me live till iam drained

a world in my belly

being pregnant
is carrying a watr bag in your belly
a blue earth water logged
inside you.
and like the infant
who escapes the water womb
tommorow i will have to puncture a hole
out of the earth into another round thing
and after that another round safer haven
a neverending journey
from one circle to another
leaving one home
bursting this bubble
only to enter another
but iam not complaining
blue delicate bubbles
nurturing and mystical await me
the colours diminishing
fading
pointing to a transluscent state
from red hues to blues
to snowy hues of clouds
and we breaking out of one watery state
into another state of matter
there is no easy escape
malleable us, entering one door
and exiting another
temporary spaces -this world

i nearly lost my url

i nearly lost my url
itsmayahere.blogspot.com
iam writing different things
so far away from starry nights,
summer nights, grasshoppers
far removed from poetry
i write about enginnering software
every morning when i drive to work
at the corner before the second traffic light
i catch a brief glimpse of a patch of bromstick blooms
i dont know what they are called
but its the grass that they make brooms with
but they are so perfect when they stand in the sun
not meshed together in a corner of your room
their softness melting me a little
and i dream of writing poetry
that used to come so easily
without effeort from my fingertips
imagine the songs that flow
without sound , straight from my soul
anyway every even as we turn the corner
the bromstick flowers corner
my fingers dry,my song unsung
for months its been like that
could never weave a song for the broomstick flowers
but tonight the song flows out of my heart
and my hands are heavy with words
once more
and i can dance on the keyboard again
and what about the broomstick flowers's special song
you ask
and i will say sheeh for now
its enough to let the music flow

where nature is a malayali girl .

come to kerala
for the rain festival.

pack an umbrella
and rubber footwear
your cotton shorts
book your ringside seats
in my balcony
i will organise
beachchairs
lemon tea
feed you roasted groundnuts
thin gruel with cooked lenthil
with grated coconut

if you impress the mother in law
she will fix you
tapioca and red fish curry
and i can smuggle in some
authentic local toddy
inside cola cans.
while we watch the coconuts-tree-dance
"possessed" with the all the devils
of the monsoon winds.

those of you
who like adventure tourism
can stay for the evening
thunderstorm and pshychedilic lightning
the scared ones can keep my daughter
and our little dog company downstairs
where Daddy can give you updates on
the current dirty political game

watch the rain with me
come huddle
say nothing
dont move
watch the blessed rain
and let the wicked sores
of summer heal


when was the last time
you admired a perfect puddle?
the garden hibiscus , the mango tree
the azure sky, the shivering crow
thrown into a magical mirror
fallen from the sky, unbroken still.

listen to the rush of rainwater
hurrying by the roadside
paper boats, twigs, dry leaves
all of the summer's sweat
this music of flowing water
soothing cool music
will play on far into the night

and you can sleep in the children's room
all four windows open
fanned to sleep
by rain angels.
you will drink
sweet monsoon night air
in your sleep and i promise you
you will dream of rainbows.

if you wake up early enough
we can go for a morning stroll
listen to the dripping sound
of rain slipping off my garden plants.
its rain festival in kerala .
and nature is this malayali girl
with jasmine buds on her wet mangled tresses.

my daughter sitting
On my shoulder
munching hot groundnuts
from a newspaper cone
I walked the temple grounds.

“trissur pooram”
a haze of colours
a symphony
so perfect
laid out for gods
gods craved from granite
some from gold.

The sun lost his luster
To the ornamented elephants
29 docile beasts.
Mammoths make me a little edgy
but then this music
infectious rhythm of the drums
That played a tune some centuries old,
The crowd was of the earth
No sophisticated airs
And it was so easy to join in
Point out the which one was “Ramasway”
And “Vasu”,
we beat invisible drums
Roared when the krishan Umbrellas were hoisted
Our hearts Washed by the music
Made pure by worship


The music was so heavenly
The golden haze reflected from the
Elephants’ ornaments magical
The pooram lovers so simple
It was enough I guess to melt
The granite and golden hearts of idol gods
I came away my heart melting
Like the sea
With waves
And a rainbow.

I don’t know when I breathe my last
But I pray.play me these drums then
And let me die with smell of the pooram grounds
Let me die with thoughts of God
And simple people, sweet music and
And an evening sky full of colourful umbrellas.

this april

dear stephen hawkings,

this april or is it june
i hear you are going to space.
uncrumple , sir
without your wheelchair
and float

know weightlessness for me
this earth is grown too heavy
so stay away awhile
like a jecko cling on the walls
of your spaceship

while washing the dishes
i leave the windows open
to gaze up at the stars
and i think of you floating free
somewhere among the stars

i wish i could come too
oh just for a week.
help around with some chores
dust the hubble maybe
hold your hand for space walk

spacecrafts have glass roof, dont they?
drifting off to sleep huddled by galaxies
seems perfect for a holiday.
we could watch the earth from afar
they say she's beautiful from out there

you without your wheelchair
me of deliquent mind
off on a holiday
with stars and floating
and weightless thoughts.

sleep well, grandfather.

we were all there
at St Mary's yesterday
to remember you
its been seven years
of living without you.

at st mary's i can
never pray.
instead i stand and stare
at the domed ceiling
and see if the painted stars are still intact

the sunlight through the stained glass
the gold engraved scupltures at the altar
Fresco of heaven on the right
towering above the choir
Gabriel with the flaming sword , cherubs at his feet

black bulls
satan and his darkness
contours of sin
fire and the twelve winged lucifer
all spliced together on my left

i muse over Seraphs
hierarchies of angels
the softness of the cloulds on the wall
strain to trace the "M" on the last supper
run my fingers over the lifelike grapes on vines

and at your grave we lighted small candles
lay flowers from our garden on your tombstone.
i wonder if you made it to heaven past Gabriel?
are you an angel in white dhoti?
do you teach history and author grammar texts still?

a few old students ,2 classmates from MCC
your brother and his family
your son and daughter,all your grandchildren
your immediate nieghbours.
a measly crowd.

we stood awhile head bowed .
as we left your side,all of us crying.
even your son in law.
its been only seven years
another seventy and yet we will feel your loss.

heavens may exist only on frescos
painted inside church walls.
its a long reach anyway, this heaven.
Appachan, for now its enough that we are all here today.
sleep well.

another morbid birthday poem

death whispers, i am no stranger to that.
when leaves fall from my garden plants
unsung death.

when raindrops innocently meet the ground
rain dies.
every sunset.death smiles softly.

i know its death
but then its only whispers.
but lately death has started shouting.
today morning at the wheel
death shouted at me

and yesterday
while cutting leftover meat for my dog,
unfortunate blood.

and iam scared
at night
as i watched my kids
drifting off to sleep

it was a funeral night
i dreamt loved ones
being lowered to the ground eyes shut
death claiming them
forever.

death licks at my feet
for now
i ignore them

morbid birthday thoughts about death

to die
is when life melts into colours
and then you will find me in the first monsoon rain
for i will be the dewdrop an youngster finds
amid the fresh green grass

might be if i have luck enough
i will be the blue
of the summer sky
and i'll be the black of a moonless night
that makes the stars seem brighter still.

holiday

unplanned vacation in an bird resort offseason
Husband and his best friend
guzzling beer from a single bottle singing
Out of tune to dire straits
from the car stereo
while their women
carefully try to lay their limbs
between 5 rowdy kids
and a dozen bottles of cold beer
lovingly wrapped in newspaper

there no migratory birds this season , sir
the boys at the reception smile at my binoculars,
camera and Salim Ali guide
and the Swamps are forlon graveyards
for rotting river weed.
No ergets only cows
knee deep in chocolate mud frisking tails,
and lonely unused canoes
abandoned till August end.

the flamboyant Periyar
reduced to a trickle
but a trickle is enough
for 2 middle aged men
to prance around in underwear
children like little hippoes
roll around in the soft riverbed mud
catch small fish to keepin beer bottles.

afterwards indulged in building bridges
"little Hanuman" inspired first from rocks
and then with Truimphant coconut branches
we were cradled
on all sides with majestic blue mountains
thin waterfalls streaming down
(like melting icecream, said my son )
we took a walk on the dried up swamps
made a bounqet of the lotus flowers
explored shady coves among the rock ridges
with dragon flies
collected slimy snails
to return to find the men
buried in mud
which maybe was the latest ayurveda fad
but i guess its mainly the beer

we heard rain.
cloudbursts on the mountain tops
we sat resigned in our waterhole
the hotel room a few civilisations away .
headbowed giving in.
the children ecstatic.
the adults overcome.
the swamp horded with mynahs,
local cranes and wagtails
and after the rain
we were strangely refreshed
cleansed.
and the men suddenly sober.

20% reduction for deluxe rooms
because it was off season
Nature threw in a rainbow
or maybe half over the skyline
as we drew away
this time the men
in the back trying
to build a convincing argument
on why fish couldn't live in beer bottles for ever.