Inside me,
Is a woman. Screaming
To be let free.
But i am chained. Chained
By the demands of a society,
That slots the human species into
Black and white,
un-defining the grey
That defines me.
I struggle every day
Because I know that I no longer belong
To the sect that lifts its lungis in ease
To relieve itself on pavement walls.
Or slips a beedi in the mouth,
Teases women on the streets
Or declares itself the heir of tomorrow.
And the tears – the tears
Come so easily, flowing
At the rage and hate that surrounds
My family.
I feel woman. In every pore.
But no one agrees,
Let alone see.
It’s all in my mind, I am told,
‘Look at your skin – the hair on your chest
And your muscular shin.’
So, the exorcist arrives,
Says i have the spirit of my old
Widowed grandmother inside.
He says i must be chained and whipped.
I am.
But i still feel woman inside.
And then one night, i can bear it no longer,
I run away.
Run until i meet my own kind.
They take me and in one quick sweep,
My manhood is gone.
I am left to die.
Before i am reborn again.
Woman inside. almost woman, outside.
i am free. free. free.
only for the moment.
for when i rise from unconsciousness,
I am given padded clothes,
My nose is pierced, my chest cleaned.
And then, i am paraded along with the rest.
Begging people on the roads,
Screaming curses on those who turn their faces away.
But now, people are scared.
For the curse of our kind is potent enough.
we laugh. we believe we have the last laugh...
until..
They laugh in taunting whispers.
Behind our backs.
They call us ‘it.’ Not ‘she’. Not’ he’.
Not even ‘they’.
That is how we stand. No name,
No sect. Just ‘it’.
or at other times, vulgar names -
eunuch, hijra, transgenders....
nothing befits the trauma of my mind,
or the sufferings of my privateness.
so, here i am, the grey shade of humanity.
Still searching for a place between
The black and white,
Yin and yang,
right and wrong.
Man and woman.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
there's fame. and there's fulfillment.
The giant waves leave nothing
Nothing to chance.
Lives, boats, even memories are gone.
And as the people gather around
The many graves of loss,
They just stare. For even their tears
Lie lost, buried amongst remnants in the sand.
The rescuers arrive,
Their earnest pride, masked under thin gauze strips
To prevent the stench of death
From entering their memories.
At first, they are shocked,
Looking at the half naked limbs, severed
By the might of the waves,
Orphaned like garbage heaps.
By the end of the day,
Tragedies turn to statistics
In the notebooks of the rescuers.
And then they come, men in suits,
In luxury cars and lapel pins that announce
The might of their being.
They sanction lakhs, draw blueprints,
Smile in benevolent grace,
At photographers flashing the headlines
Of the morrow.
They disappear, as quickly as they arrive,
Just like those giant waves.
The donations will now be watched over
By self appointed altruists
Whose altruism is directed at few
But themselves.
The real ones who stay to help
Will have to fight hurdles every where,
For trust in the times of strife
Is as abandoned as hope.
But these martyrs will stay,
Rebuild lives until one day,
They become nameless graves
Themselves.
But what will stand is the generous gifts
Of those men in cars and badges on their lapels.
Articles in papers, interviews on TV.
Always preserved in files and families.
The real martyrs and the rescuers
Will become mere memory,
Lost in the sweat and toil
Of the rebuilt land.
Nothing to chance.
Lives, boats, even memories are gone.
And as the people gather around
The many graves of loss,
They just stare. For even their tears
Lie lost, buried amongst remnants in the sand.
The rescuers arrive,
Their earnest pride, masked under thin gauze strips
To prevent the stench of death
From entering their memories.
At first, they are shocked,
Looking at the half naked limbs, severed
By the might of the waves,
Orphaned like garbage heaps.
By the end of the day,
Tragedies turn to statistics
In the notebooks of the rescuers.
And then they come, men in suits,
In luxury cars and lapel pins that announce
The might of their being.
They sanction lakhs, draw blueprints,
Smile in benevolent grace,
At photographers flashing the headlines
Of the morrow.
They disappear, as quickly as they arrive,
Just like those giant waves.
The donations will now be watched over
By self appointed altruists
Whose altruism is directed at few
But themselves.
The real ones who stay to help
Will have to fight hurdles every where,
For trust in the times of strife
Is as abandoned as hope.
But these martyrs will stay,
Rebuild lives until one day,
They become nameless graves
Themselves.
But what will stand is the generous gifts
Of those men in cars and badges on their lapels.
Articles in papers, interviews on TV.
Always preserved in files and families.
The real martyrs and the rescuers
Will become mere memory,
Lost in the sweat and toil
Of the rebuilt land.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
a kite's love song
Clouds
Of love
Enshroud me
Envelop me;
I lie transported
Bereft of barriers
That bind me to mortal ground
You take me to a new-found-land
Where myriad shades of love unfold;
Our kite like freedom finds new expression.
Together we go, your soul threading mine
Tossed, turned and careened by desire,
Higher we glide, guided by dreams
Until suddenly, you snap,
Leaving me to savour,
Those precious moments
Before I fall,
For your love
One more
Time.
one of my earliest poems in free verse. - maybe 2007?
Of love
Enshroud me
Envelop me;
I lie transported
Bereft of barriers
That bind me to mortal ground
You take me to a new-found-land
Where myriad shades of love unfold;
Our kite like freedom finds new expression.
Together we go, your soul threading mine
Tossed, turned and careened by desire,
Higher we glide, guided by dreams
Until suddenly, you snap,
Leaving me to savour,
Those precious moments
Before I fall,
For your love
One more
Time.
one of my earliest poems in free verse. - maybe 2007?
the invisibility of memory
The remembrance
of forgetfulness
blinds words
that hide beneath
the surface of
volcanic thoughts
waiting to burst forth
in a canvas of emotions.
They refuse to erupt
And instead stop. Abruptly.
Their rivulets of
Loquacity stifled,
Silted into muteness.
Seconds, minutes and aeons
Seem to pass,
But nothing wills
Their unwillingness
To spill and fall.
And then, suddenly
They disappear,
Recede into greyed
Folds.
Lost
To the cacophonous
Laughter of the world
And the empty tears
Of a loved one’s memories
There emerges a calm
On the face,
The remnants of remembrance,
Now forgotten.
Many a time,
The loved one waits
For the torrents
To emerge,
If just once.
Alas! They
Are now buried,
Lost in a world
That she is lost unto.
Alzheimer’s –before it takes away reason
written in may 2011
i did. i did not.
Sorry.
I know it is a hopeless word
And that it cannot reverse
The kindness and care.
But listen to me just this once.
Even if it doesn’t matter anymore.
Sorry
For losing myself
To desperation.
For trying ways to keep you
With me, without
Ever finding out
How it must feel
To never know
Until the end.
For submitting you
To the trauma of cure
And all the sympathy
That came disguised
As tender care.
And not understanding at all
That it was empathy
You sought,
Not maudlin cries
Over furrowed brows.
For not asking you
If you would like
To be propped up
By the window
Not showing you hope
In the rising sun,
The beauty of the birds
And the open sky.
But instead,
Overpowering you
With concoctions of every kind,
In the hope that you will
Stay.
I wish
I could have
Known that it was the
Cure that evoked
The pain in your tears,
Instead of mistaking them
For gratitude.
I wish
I had known
That at times you just
Wanted to be free
And at others,
It was comfort
Of closeness, you sought.
But,
I chose instead to
spend those hours
In fervent prayers
To keep you with me.
Maybe,
if i had shown you
The starlit skies,
Your favourite tv shows and
Food for the soul,
I might have been lucky
To find solace
In that twinkle in your eye
Over decaying skin.
Sorry
For succeeding in
Willing your life
For my sake,
Albeit a while.
And in turn,
Watching you die.
this is the way i felt as i watched my father die. and then k's dad. both died because medicine couldn't do much. 2011 may
I know it is a hopeless word
And that it cannot reverse
The kindness and care.
But listen to me just this once.
Even if it doesn’t matter anymore.
Sorry
For losing myself
To desperation.
For trying ways to keep you
With me, without
Ever finding out
How it must feel
To never know
Until the end.
For submitting you
To the trauma of cure
And all the sympathy
That came disguised
As tender care.
And not understanding at all
That it was empathy
You sought,
Not maudlin cries
Over furrowed brows.
For not asking you
If you would like
To be propped up
By the window
Not showing you hope
In the rising sun,
The beauty of the birds
And the open sky.
But instead,
Overpowering you
With concoctions of every kind,
In the hope that you will
Stay.
I wish
I could have
Known that it was the
Cure that evoked
The pain in your tears,
Instead of mistaking them
For gratitude.
I wish
I had known
That at times you just
Wanted to be free
And at others,
It was comfort
Of closeness, you sought.
But,
I chose instead to
spend those hours
In fervent prayers
To keep you with me.
Maybe,
if i had shown you
The starlit skies,
Your favourite tv shows and
Food for the soul,
I might have been lucky
To find solace
In that twinkle in your eye
Over decaying skin.
Sorry
For succeeding in
Willing your life
For my sake,
Albeit a while.
And in turn,
Watching you die.
this is the way i felt as i watched my father die. and then k's dad. both died because medicine couldn't do much. 2011 may
Friday, October 21, 2011
yesterday's is good enough
the memsahib has arrived,
hot, sweaty and sticky from
her forty-five minute workout.
the wetness of sweat has neatly
settled upon the even lumps
of prosperity,
even as prosperity strains from
the stretch of a
brand that screams fitness.
the table is set; spread in
delicate detail, awaiting
friends who will arrive
in shimmering georgettes, crepes
and muted gold.
in minutes she emerges, coiffed,
gleaming skin – the crows’ feet
hushed and muted for a few hours.
her friends and she
talk of how tiring it is
on the treadmill, of how
difficult it is to watch those
calories burn,
in between mouthfuls of
feta cheese, gouda, before
they wash them
down with wine.
five courses later,
the kitchen sink is full,
with half-eaten titbits,
discarded in haste,
when conversation turns
to those calories again.
tomorrow, memsahib will spend
and extra hour,
and come back hotter, and wetter with sweat.
but today, kamala must hurry.
she must finish her chores
quickly.
because today, kamala has a special treat.
her one meal of today's dhal and
today’s rice is
wrapped in a plastic grocery bag.
today’s rice is a treat, is it not,
for it is usually yesterday’s?
she is hungry, of course
but
the little ones at home
are waiting.
waiting
for today's dhal and
today’s rice.
Published in Muse India Journal - Jan-Feb 2012
this is a poem that started out as a short story. been in my head for years. put down sometime last year, i think. it's begging to become a short story. but somehow, the words have been evading me.
hot, sweaty and sticky from
her forty-five minute workout.
the wetness of sweat has neatly
settled upon the even lumps
of prosperity,
even as prosperity strains from
the stretch of a
brand that screams fitness.
the table is set; spread in
delicate detail, awaiting
friends who will arrive
in shimmering georgettes, crepes
and muted gold.
in minutes she emerges, coiffed,
gleaming skin – the crows’ feet
hushed and muted for a few hours.
her friends and she
talk of how tiring it is
on the treadmill, of how
difficult it is to watch those
calories burn,
in between mouthfuls of
feta cheese, gouda, before
they wash them
down with wine.
five courses later,
the kitchen sink is full,
with half-eaten titbits,
discarded in haste,
when conversation turns
to those calories again.
tomorrow, memsahib will spend
and extra hour,
and come back hotter, and wetter with sweat.
but today, kamala must hurry.
she must finish her chores
quickly.
because today, kamala has a special treat.
her one meal of today's dhal and
today’s rice is
wrapped in a plastic grocery bag.
today’s rice is a treat, is it not,
for it is usually yesterday’s?
she is hungry, of course
but
the little ones at home
are waiting.
waiting
for today's dhal and
today’s rice.
Published in Muse India Journal - Jan-Feb 2012
this is a poem that started out as a short story. been in my head for years. put down sometime last year, i think. it's begging to become a short story. but somehow, the words have been evading me.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Retribution
Today,
I stand at the gates
Of wisdom,
Paying penance
For my forefathers’ sins.
Their sins of demarcating
Humankind into
The good, the bad and the ugly.
I stand everywhere,
Demarcated now,
Even though
I don’t care,
Never have,
About whom i sit with,
Or where i eat,
Of who my friends are,
Or where they come from.
And still,
I cringe when they say that word.
Apologetic for an
Inheritance that forsakes me
And sends me to foreign shores
To make a future,
Because i have none here.
In the end,
Karma always catches up.
It always catches up.
as long as we speak of caste, reservation, upliftment of different sects, there will always be a section that is demarcated. when will we begin to think of humanity as a whole? as one where everyone lives the way he works and is good at? ah! poetry and idealism.
I stand at the gates
Of wisdom,
Paying penance
For my forefathers’ sins.
Their sins of demarcating
Humankind into
The good, the bad and the ugly.
I stand everywhere,
Demarcated now,
Even though
I don’t care,
Never have,
About whom i sit with,
Or where i eat,
Of who my friends are,
Or where they come from.
And still,
I cringe when they say that word.
Apologetic for an
Inheritance that forsakes me
And sends me to foreign shores
To make a future,
Because i have none here.
In the end,
Karma always catches up.
It always catches up.
as long as we speak of caste, reservation, upliftment of different sects, there will always be a section that is demarcated. when will we begin to think of humanity as a whole? as one where everyone lives the way he works and is good at? ah! poetry and idealism.
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