the schoolteacher

dear Manju,
or man juju , the name you called yourself when you were 10
the princess from the himalayas
who sometimes visited our house in the guise of my sister
mostly when the refridgerator was loaded
who gulped down our offerings of coca cola and icecream
i was 9 and brother was 7.
and we were overwhelmed with the stories of snow and snow leopards
and black magic.

you loved football, arm wrestling and WWF
at 13 you became famous in school
when you said you wanted to be Prime minister
in your english composition.
do you still have your Bible
the one you won for "Best Allrounder"
(the front page i scribbled my name next to yours
and you bit me and i had to have a tetanus shot)

you taught us to pray
when papa was sick
and we knelt three times a day
for rosary . and brother always slept in between
for you insisted on reading all the pslams
you hated Paul, said he wasn't a feminisit
and then you buried yourself in Tolstoy
Shakespare, wordsworth
tHE PRUDE period
when you went by the book. all the rules of road.

your teenage was brutal.
because of your uncommon beauty
you were not allowed to play football with the boys
no more treeclimbing. no cycling
everyone fell in love with you
the young tution sir wrote plays with you in it
and after you joined the women in the fields for harvesting
toiling with the farmhands
you became the village diety

in college you learnt to fly
and to fall.
you broke every rule in the book
a communist
an atheist .
like oscar wilde's flute
you played every tune.
flippant.
somewhere around here
i lost my sister and gained a friend
We shared the same hostel room and souls

you didnt make it.
didn't become prime minister.
you didn't write any book.
but its nice to see you
in church sometimes.
its nice to see you all organised
and last weekend at the resort
i saw your student running upto you
and how you smiled on him
full of love
i am sure you will listen to him
accept him for all he is
nurture his dreams
never once breach his trust.

i am sure you will encourage them to question
every rule
but will still point out the right direction
for you had been searching all your life.
and i know you never grade children by test scores
for you have the magic
to see their souls.

i know
for you were my teacher all along

wind from dreams

last night i dreamt a windy dream

a cool night wind balloning from my
dreamy sleep.

stirring the bedspreads
and even my childrens night shirt a little

lifting the curtains even.

i am left with just snatches of my dream

but the wind was blowing so vividly.

that i can still feel pleasant mountain air

we were living in hills and valleys

and there were pretty wooden fences

my neighbours (from once upon a time)

were calling out

their faces happy though sleep-veiled

their tresses unruly

and the wind

carrying their happy voices to the valleys and behold

and i felt so light.

suddenly after so many months

standing there in the wind

and i remember

a sudden realisation when i woke up

i must be terrible unhappy otherwise

so angels, send me more windy dreams

make me smile in my sleep

ambition at 33

my ambition at 33
is not gandhi. not van gogh. but close.
is not to write poems. sweet like street blues jazz.
with an inner understanding so that i can write like solomon
about"vanities of vanities"

nowadays i am trying to be like a potted plant
dont laugh. honest. a tree, a creeper
an anthurium in the sun.
holding my one single flower like a prayer
be one of the paddy people. live in the marshes
and wet places.

my ambition at 33 is to learn to speak fluently
the language of flowers
beautiful fragrance. mute
straightforward conversation. flawless.
my tongue.a big purple flower.
honeyed, but not in your face
only bees and butterflies would listen

my ambition at 33
(sorry papa)
is to understand silence
listen. always. like the coconut palm.
learning to nod my head. in affirmation.
know that the taller you grow the more shade
you need to live behind.
learn to share my shadow.

to learn to stand up like garden plants.
always like life is too sacred to sit down
life is too passionate, too worthy of respect
that one cannot lie down , even for a second.

my ambition at 33 is to be a creeper, grow translucent twines
cling on to my near ones, grow into thier lives
hold on to bonds. lest i grow complacent.
to grow roots . deep inside into the soil thats my country
and hold together my family, my language and customs
my brethen.
to marinate in life's joys and sorrows. alike.

come away

“For sale
Estate :2 acres of rubber, teak and coconut with a house (Tiled roof )in good condition.
Location: Muvattupuzha, kerala”

Said an ad in the folds of the morning paper, just this morning
And I feel I have bought the place already

And I can feel the rain already
The rain falling on my house with the tiled roof

And the soft peaceful pillows of smoke that float out of rustic chimneys
Slow smoke that tell you not to rush,

And my hands . they can feel the rough bark of the trees already
My hands are tired of touching keyboards,steering wheels and such

And I can taste the sweet milky morning tea I will sip
Sitting on the steps of the verandah waiting for the sun to come out from the trees.

And I can hear the calling from the cows already
All five cows and a calf , calling from the hills around


(this city does not have hills enough
this city does not have calves
this city does not have paddy fields to hold july rains
this city does not have the crickets song)

and oh that ? that’s me under the huge cashew nut trees(the estate will have cashew nut trees of course)
picking fallen red orange yellow fiery fruit

trees with low bouncing boughs near my feet
and I take the swinging stairway. up high

and I can hear only the thunder for iam under the blankets with my son and daughter
whispering .

the mango tree is on fire. Fallen from lightning
but its okay. See the cows are quiet. Its safe.

And I know my farmhands already
A man and wife who will tend to each bittergourd flower like their child

And they talk to their cats and they will weep hugging the bark of the trees
They wont say much,and I don’t expect them to.

But don’t be surprised if the man walks in at dusk
With sleeping orphaned baby squirrels in his shirt pocket

And I will have a fallen coconut tree bridge made
So my neighbour can walk across and have tea once a week

And I know what I will speak. About the thunder and the fallen mango tree
About the harvest and about the pepper prices

And my son and my daughter . I can see them run to school, after they feed the cows
And bathe in the stream. Barefoot with the lunch wrapped in banana leaves.no books

No books . only we will read Tennyson while watering the plants
And the rest they can learn of the land.

Oh I didn’t tell you about the stream? We discovered it by accident.
I can hear the paddling in Banana tree canoes.

The crumble of the dried leaves , the wild berries and the rabbits we will catch
The green shiver of moss after it rains , the mushroom patch

(You see, this city doesnot have mango trees
no frogs, no grasshoppers
this city does not have gooseberry trees
this city is never mine)

I saw the ad just this morning and I have fled
to a house with a tiled roof among trees.

free

free.

#a poem addressed to you

I am writing you a poem
on a thursday morning
sitting in my cubicle

i have some work piled up,a few mails to read
my little daughter has sty,
i need go home early

but these words are tossing and turning
within me, i feel them sit sulking in my chest
heavy, weighing me down

sir, are you the one who planted bombs?
and are you sitting at home today,drinking coffee,
sprawled out. relaxing after a job well down.

surfing channels,smiling as you answer the phone
your boss is mighty pleased i guess
and maybe you've made some dough

or maybe you are walking amidst corpses,
bundles of white.Carefully stepping over the bits of flesh
listening to the broken cries, breathing it in.

yeah, there are pools of blood,brains spilling out
that? oh it just some piles of limbs
did you see the faceless people,the mangled torsoes stacked up.

listen. its just the mourning,some are bitter cries,
oh! to hear the silent ones, place your hand
over some heaving hearts

yes. you got us this time.you've briused our soul.
gruesomely blown up our fathers,mothers,sons and daughters
made widows. orphaned our young.


you have our tears.take our hoarse cries too.
our anger and our anguish
take them with you.

take it to your home.
lay it on your wounds
and see if they heal.

our cries will return to you every night
before you drift off to sleep
and your dreams will be about faceless people

if you did this for money,
your abode will carry the stink of blood
your drawing room will echo with cries of anguish

and we?
we will bury our dead. we will mourn.
we will be filled with righteous anger.

we will grow stronger. heal.

#nature's child

i wander into the thick of the jungle
empty my bundle of short term goals
nature throws me into a void
Where millennium blues evaporate
And leaves me
Untainted and whole .
I Dig up Seetha from the chaos
that’s my mind
and find me a home where wild lilies grow in my backyard


Not another cluttered confined space. Grilled.
A waterfall and jasmine twines make my garden ,
And me. Pagan high priestess in Nature’s own shrine

I Sleep. Rock to and fro . Light and easy,
On a swing , made from all the Whispers of the forest, .

I stir at the first kiss of dawn,
hear the tussle of the leaves as the dew falls

and i steal away to my little shrine
to sing my simple songs
and make offerings of tulsi leaves ,incense

when the black that’s leftover of the night
saves her farewell embrace
to trip me,over the gnarled roots of the banyan, the hurt on my foot
I’ll give away As I plunge into the biting cold of the river , A stage all set
For the golden sun. to tap-dance on.
a thousand birdcalls, playing nature’s favorite tune

One moment of dawn with the sun, earth and the skies
And I am banished Princess no more,
But Nature’s spawn.
The earth is alive. She talks to me.
In the exalting song of the morning
.

#tuesday morning rain

watching rain on tuesday morning
it started with a murmur
rain.this morning.started like a soft murmur,
like the sounds of the audience before a show.
a little excitement.

i sit and listen to the rain murmur
on the steps of the verandah
the night has not retreated yet
there are traces of bluish blackness
in the corners of the garden

and our neighbours mango tree
is sundenly shy.she's wet, her branches drooping
with a river of june rain
the evergreen twine on the grills of the verandah
dry but for brillant drops on webbed leaves
like diamonds of a nose ring.

my teenage niece ventures out,
with an umbrella
bare feet on cold pebbled courtyard
the frays of her pyjamas wet from brushing past the rose bush
her fingertips teasing water sitting heavy
on the edges of Orchid leaves.
and the drummer in the rain orchestra
plays a new tune on the streched parasol

and then the murmur becomes a shout.
water pours down,drops all in a line
like in a queue. and thank god otherwise
it wouldn't be decent on the potted plants
would have wedged the flowers from their stalks
would have made a tear in my neice's umbrella
and sharp holes on the garden wall

#Little men

#I want to be colorblind( published)

I want to be colorblind.
See everything in harmless black and white
For I wouldn’t stand and stare at the waking sky
I would rather make us some black coffee in the white of the kitchen tube.

Wait, then I’d throw away all the crayons I have collected as a child and use
Clean abrupt lucid Charcoal for everything .
Make modern art like a frozen question marks that you wouldn’t understand but
buy anyway and hang on your drawing room walls

I want to wear a big band aid on my soul
So then I wont be an open wound
To hemophiliacally bleed
To the bruises on some stranger’s knee

I want some pragmatic rubber soles
For my high heels
So that next time I waltz
I don’t spill my silly soul on your perfect white realistic floor.

I want to cut free every stretched violin string in me that
Resonates to your slightest touch, and sometimes even when you don’t bother to,
I want to plug up every tiny hole in that long bonus flute
Use it like a telescope instead, for filthy thoughts, never make music again

I want to be a she-Obelix, throw estrogenpowered menhirs, win battles for my Gaul
Or Asterix , only taller
I want to be carried on shields ,
make magic potions ,
Don’t mind being Cleopatra too (after painful tedious plastic surgery on my nose)

But
I am a court jester, Painted smile all over my frown
Another village bard who has to sing her songs aloud,
Without her harp,
Without battle weary heroes, without roasted boar, without the triumph

And I can sing even without the wine
For my Gaul is in Ruins
And I need only echo her wails.

#God was an alien

god was an alien
shipwrecked in a blue planet
for a week.

Blue skies
blue seas
Too much of blue, he might have thought.

Maybe he got too lonely
maybe he was a little inspired
i hope it was not because he got too bored,

Anyway he got a little busy
Made MAN. jUST Like him
and woman too, and did a great job too.

It was all good.
the twilight sky, the sundrenched hills
dragon flies, the bumblebee, the spotted deer

And then it was time for him to go
he might have taken soveniors of his stay
a shell or two,a lock of our hair, peacock feather

and just as he turned the corner
he must have looked back a little guilty
a part of him trapped in some moulds of clay

#broken nest

a wagtail with a funny chewed-up tail
has been nesting under the sunshade for quite a while
while I iron in the adjoining room
they make a lot of noise
strange smooching sounds
squeaks and calling out


yesterday night it rained
and the wind raged as if possessed.
in the morning the maid
found the little wagtail's nest
once cosy and a sacred home
a bunch of brittle twigs.wet, some torn


and our dog Tiger had a fledging or two for breakfast
there was a lot of frantic calling from the garden
and i rushed out to rescue yet another.
i shut the baby bird in the sturdy
the motherbird promptly sat guard on the guava branch outside.
and Tiger banished to the garage, admonished and shamed .


at sundown after work I found the motherbird
still on her slender swingy perch
and her little one had made it to the window sill.
the motherbird cajoling flight, her offspring reluctant.
and their nest of brittle twigs lay wasted underneath.
one night was all it took, one windy wet black cruel night.


and to think yesterday night i almost broke my cosy nest
i lay awake listening to the storm
outside the winds blew as if possessed
playing with my wavering thoughts.
but by sunrise , the storm abated
both within and without.


and before me as i watched -the little wagtail like magic
flew off my window sill to join his triumphant mother.
And I hope they have learnt their lesson well,
Next time I hope it’s a sturdier nest

#from a plane window

last week while flying Air deccan
i didn't sleep , i watched clouds instead

and wondered if they were souls of the dead
or that part of us that's light enough to rise really high

no its not easy for the whole of me to go that far
but in tinges, in spurts and small measures. yes

my sleeping infant soul, the part of me that prayed today
that day i could gve my gold bracelet away

the me when i fed a raving madman fish curry and rice
he , suddenly docile . like a lamb.

not the soul of yesterday night, in the pub
that will never float. would fall on its belly even if it tried.

clean thoughts will float iam sure
and love. selfless and true,all white. light.

# for cousins getting married

cant say much
but if the spouse is a male
ask to see his toothbrush
if its much munched
the man wont treat you delicate
but he would love you.
just be ready for a rough ride.
if its just like new
he'd give you a lot of space
speak politely
but love? well if you are lucky.
and the would be bride?
most importantly should have good teeth
otherwise she wouldn't say much
lest you see her fillings
and her laugh-hesitant.
and you have to live with wife
who never laughs with a open mouth.

#for the sun, the earth and a day

i am learning sanskrit
for i want to be a priest
iam thirty three and not very pious
but still.

take an year off
from family, from normalcy
Journey to the ganges
in a snake boat and an oarsman

wear white,
shave my head
i know i will look shocking
then have cold sandalwood paste smeared on my pate

and for an year
every morn stand with good white bearded men
with the ganges holding me by my hips
and sing a welcome to the sun when a new day is born

iam sure i will know the right words then
words that the sun is sure to hear
and he will stand on earth's blue doorstep
and smile as he comes in.

and live every moment with caution
breathe timidly, and tread on mother earth
so light that she'll hardly know.
speak in hushed whispers all day.

stand on my headand meditate on life,
or dash around the traffic in big cities handing out pamplets that preaches conservation
or make music with a tampura and sing bhajans to the Sun, earth and a day
or water all trees by the roadside.

and every evening sit by the murky river
wail and break my glass bangles on her stone steps
and mourn the death of day
under twilight's funeral pyre.

ps: for World environment day

#Aby

the annual fair
at our grandfather's village
Dinner at our maternal uncle's
outside its a carnival of candles
and coloured huge umbrellas with silver bells
the 30 temple drummers in white dhothis
and in between a band playing shocking bollywod music
an elephant
the church choir
all pretty girls in white veils singing from a tempo traveller
the old bearded priest cradling the cross
the glass bracelet sellers
and coloured sweetmeat
soh ! just the right place to buy a bed,sweet and tangy sugarcane juice
or even have your fortune told

inside
the kitchen, wet with memories
red oxide floor
round steel thalis
high wooden ceilings and the creaking fan
the fresh smell of hay
the soft sounds of sleeping cows
my sister and i drowning in a sea of relatives, all garish. Rich.
" how many kids?" " what does your husband do?"queries are so out of place
when one is mellow . a little limp.for one is back in a childhood haunt.

but this house. still an oasis.
now that we are in our thirties
we dont miss our grandparents much
and can come here more often without feeeling
that ache.this house were we were loved so much carresses us
. Opens out its stone arms like an embrace every time we come
.and we sit on a once favored window seat
and allow ourselves to be weighed.

and on a wooden bench at the little dinning room
just like he always sat Is Aby.
our mother's cousin.retarded,unschooled
now touching 40.
His hair tumbling on to his face
is salt and pepper.
otherwise he is just the same.
the same bruises on his knee
the same smile.the slurred speech.
same white shirt.

and he talks of how he chases his cows
off the just planted banana trees
and how his nephew got himself a car
he shows us the most recent bruise
when he fell off the mango tree.
The turtle in the well died some ten years back
that the new priest smokes like a chimney.

and outside the carnival rages on
and the night sky is galore with fireworks
its time for the church procession
and everyone is outside with lit laterns
but my sister and i
sit listening to Aby talk

we sit like how one huddles around a fire.
snuggled in old memories.

#the rains

enchanted mirror
fallen from the sky
thats kerala when it rains.

#sweet summer

its started raining today
the first rains after the summer
This summer was different
i didn't have time to sit sulking for rain
or shake my fist at the old man in the sky
when i was younger i have begged for rain
with the panting drooping foliage
with the red roasted dried up earth of the paddy field


the first rains, i felt rained for me
foolishly thought someone heard my pleas
and the thunderstorm and lightning and
the incessant drumming on the tiled roof was all for me.
i wouldn't sleep that night,my terrace door half open
for i'd rather listen to the swishing of the heavy coconut heads
an angry earth appeased by a repentant lover

this year i enjoyed the sweat tricking down my back
for its been a decade since i sweated thus
and instead of cribbing about the heat
summer was more sweet watermelon on crushed ice,
and a thousand mangoes some eaten whole
i think i'll smell of mangoes all this year
summer was red chilles drying on the terrace floor
summer was coloured cotton sarees spread out for the sun.
summer was a blessed shower before bed.

its strange what life teaches us. to love sweat.
for now i think i value work above seasons.
we know that summers will come before rains
and it cant keep raining for ever.and hot summers
and all its wanting
and sweating and sleepless nights are nothing
if we can start to love summers
as much as the rains.and its never seasons that holds happiness
but what we did with them.

#one busy morning

and today it struck me
while i was ironing my saree
5 yards of brown sweaty embrodiery
its not easy to wash this every day
so we sun them awhile and fold them away

so this thought struck me from nowhere
about when i am going to die
its funny beacause iam not in a morbid mood
you see mornings are about hot sambhar and idlis
and coconut chutney

and all day iam busy
or trying to be
I haven't thought about death after i left my teens
my teens were spent on the hot terraces waiting for rain in the summer
and in spring you wouldn't even see me
cause i would be lying among the foliage watching wasps building paper nests.

but today it struck me. that i will be gone.
and everyone went about their chores
my aged in laws were praying,
the maid cutting onions
my nephew learning the mutiplication table
the cat snoring.and me ironing my sweaty saree.

and i had thought i was clever.
at least cleverer than my peers
because i aimed at dying happy not marrying rich
I thought i would do something that my cousin Anita
who lived in Chennai would fly down to cry at my funeral
and that my parents would be proud , a little sad but still proud.

and i thought i would write songs
true songs that had a thousand echoes in them
wondrous echoes that whispered about life
and about truth . echoes that entered peoples heads
echoes that never died.

but the best i can do is live peaceful,
hold my mother inlaws hand
when she climbs down the steep stairs to church,
buy my maid some fancy shirt with mirror work,
or make some tasty uppamava in the mornings,
water the orchids in the garden
and feed the fish.

#teary fruit

my mother in law
back from a holiday at her hometown
offered me some jackfruit

the fruit tasted just like her
not sticky soft
like the ones i've eaten

the sheaths sitting in rows
organised
and delicate

a little too watery
perhaps over there
nobody is too stingy with tears either.