It was a day
Somewhat resembling today.

When, abandoning Ramachandran, Shivan
And ****** Mary,
And leaving them to sit in the sixth standard again,
Forty three of them
Went single file to seventh A.

Where did these tears,
That were missing then,
Originate, now?

Ramachandran did odd jobs even then
Shivan’s mother was a beggar
****** Mary’s name itself spoke aloud
But what was wrong with me?
And That was what Meenakshi teacher asked too that day
If she were my mother,
I could at least have answered ‘O go away’!
It was later that Meenakshi teacher’s right breast
Got removed due to cancer

“It is because of the evil eye, teacher
In case the answer is correct,
Give me marks and send me to the seventh”.

We met
In a deserted street
In Kabul, capital of Afghanistan, In the next incarnation.

Thereon,
A tee shirt , with the legend
“The lovers in this incarnation
Belonged to two populations
That were at war in the last one”
Walked by.

I realized that day
That your gaze
Was a bullet
Of hatred and vengeance
Left over from unabated fury
Even after firing six times that day

And you told me
That my words
Were like
The satisfaction of chopping repeatedly,
A body long dead

Still,
When you saw popcorn on the wayside,
Why did you offer to get it?
Why did you coo, ‘what’s wrong, dear’ when I sighed?
I am clueless!

you asked
How we separated
The first time it was because the flame flared up
When lighting a taper
Once it was because the phone rang while kissing.
There was some stain on my shirt when we met in a dream
.....
.......
For asking
For not asking
For calling, not calling,
For sighing,
For laughing, for whimpering,
For crying, for eating, for not eating,
For sending, for not wishing to send,
For going to the toilet
Without asking permission
For saying a prayer for mother and children

Must have died together on that day.
The anxiety was not
About who would look after you
If I died first,
But who all will look at you!

Must have killed
If not that, God would have interfered
Whatever the rock on which it is built,
God would upset it with an earthquake if nothing else.

God and His strange ways!


In the Afghan capital city of Kabul,
It is the same us who killed with love in this fashion


When you exclaimed
“How lovely this city is”,
I lighted another cigarette

This time, another tee shirt
With the legend “I am not even born”
Passes by


I remembered
The two lines you told me
in the last incarnation,
Four days before Christmas,
A Thursday evening,
At 5:41.
I laughed without telling you that.
You gave me a kiss.
Author Notes

While sketching a lamp, it was seen that the current came on.
The memoirs about darkness too got stuck then. Thus started to pray

God is a father who gives ten if we ask for a hundred.
Otherwise, would he trick me, by giving me sleep daily, instead of the death I pray for?

The only consolation is the sky. Its reddened eyes, swollen eyelids, disturb.
The previous day, I saw it fallen into and lying in the river.
No, it wouldn’t have died. I can hear the birdsongs.
Is the kingfisher a bird enchanted by the water-spirit?
Or else, leave it, let it be a fish with wings.

When I couldn’t bear the boredom anymore, I thought I would write a letter to death.
As soon as I finished addressing, ‘O last supper of a loner,’ telephone rang.
When I attended, it didn’t say anything.
Earlier, it had given me a kiss.
I don’t remember reading in any book on marriage that from the second kiss onwards, you start feeling bad breath.
Forget all that.

Suppose I bewail ‘die me, die me’, to the current?
After all, it doesn’t know proper grammar or syntax.

Is the news that the copywriter who wrote the advertisement
for the glue which merges two lives
Didn’t get his pay, in today’s papers? No, let the day get lighter
It is a pity that there is no calling bell in the cemetery
Father sleeps , having secured  the mud door .
O no, I am not making any noise

O you who makes fun of me saying that I make a sign of the cross when I see a phone booth,
Please do not sin. You will never find a purer confessional!

I had wanted to make a good lay out for the suicide note, take lots of photocopies and entrust it to a friend to have it posted too.
Otherwise, leave it, it is better to live than to die thus..

Perused that which was written in blood, applying saliva to the fingers
Disgorged the writings of hunger unread
Those of tears got erased even before reading.

I do not belong to anyone, leave me alone
I do not belong to anyone, leave me alone
Please, leave me alone.

When I was born, Father and Mother said
My son, my son
Our son

when I cried that day
I was loudly repeating
“Leave me, let me be, I do not belong to anyone”
No, I do not belong to anyone.

It was for the same reason
That I cried while getting baptized
Leave me alone, leave me.

I do not belong to a Christian, nor Hindu, or Jew or Buddhist
It was saying “let me be, free me” that I cried that day
I do not belong to anyone.
I do not belong to myself.

I do not belong to anyone,
Not you, not anyone


A kiss, or marriage or death
Has no right over me.
Not belonging to anyone is, life, for me

The phone in the public booth,
The computer in the cafe, the Russian ******* the road,
The cup in the teashop, the pen in the complaints register


The bus which plies from village to another village
The doctor at the clinic, the flower by the wayside, the river that flows south,
The sea which counts waves
Rain, sky anywhere, sun, moon,

Or,
A Tree by the wayside.

When I rang in the morning, amma asked ‘who is it?’

‘who is it’
In the same voice that she used in the olden days
Worried that she would have to serve coffee and snacks
When Jinu, Pradeep, Riyaz came calling

Amma, it is not the nair boy nor Pradeep from pallippuram, nor the Muslim boy Riyaz,
It is your son

‘who is it’

Amma, this is me,
What else shall I say?
Your son.

What other title do I have

Your Youngest
Born in old age
One who is supposed to look after his amma
Who left home
Who lived as he pleased
Who married without consent from those at home
Who failed many exams
Who used to wander around with strangers
Who used to drink and shout obscenities at the clergy

The butcher knife in amma’s chest

When again the question ‘who is it’
Falls in my ears,
Amma, what should I say?

The dark one of yesteryears became fair
Because of not going in the sun, amma
I cannot become dark even if I pretend, amma

I drank and drank and got all swollen up, amma
I smoked and smoked and became tired, amma
I shouted and shouted and became hoarse, amma
I read and read poems and overflowed, amma..

When amma asks again ‘who is it’
As though she didn’t know anything

I felt like answering I have become Thadiyantavida Naseer, having read too much news
I felt like answering that I have become A P Abdullakkutti  having hankered after whatever I heard and saw
I felt like answering that I have become MA Yusuf Ali, tallying accounts again and again
I felt like answering I have become Kunjhalikkutty, having lusted after everyone I saw
Who is it, who is it, when the voice cracks asking, what more am I to say

Amma, who are you?

Why do you start as though you heard the question ‘who is the father?”

Do crows still visit the breadfruit tree on the northern side, amma?
Do you still scold, ‘hey breadfruit tree, you little minx, do not fall before you are grown enough!’, amma?

Is amma listening?
Do you understand?

What about Biran?
After his girl got married,
After his boy went to the gulf,
Biran doesn’t come
He is prosperous now,
Good fish are not available nowadays..

…

Was the tamarind tree fruitful this year, amma?
Did you dry the tamarind to make it into cakes to preserve it, amma?

Cannot down a morsel without buttermilk
In the morning, when I looked, all sourness was lost
moreover, the milk got curdled
…
Amma, wont you get up fast
Don’t we have to go to church?

There are lots of people there
There are lots of people there

I have taken the matchbox
Buy two candles (small, cheap ones)
Come, I will be here
It has been long since you lighted a candle for your father

…

I wrote my name
At the tip of a huge tree in our genealogy

It sways in a gentle wind

Brethren with whom I grew up
Say that it is because
Of  intoxication

People say it is acting the fool
Some say that all that is needed is a beating

…

On the roots of a huge tree in the genealogy, amma,
You sprout little greens of new awareness

Still even in heavy winds

Your children, fruits of your womb, who knew the labour you went through
say it is because  you are not in your right mind

People say it is acting the fool
Those who watch recommend tying up

Amma,
for me
and you,
what is consciousness,

In the villa in Sharja,
A banyan tree stood, stuck to the wall of the building.
Mind throbbed as soon as it caught sight of it,
Touched it to my forehead in reverence,
Remembered my father who understood trees.
In the book she has kept closed,
It should be possible to still see
The memory veins of a leaf-
Plucked after touching its soul and seeking permission.
‘It is a sign of prosperity,
It cleanses the atmosphere’, Mary too said.
New tenants came in the room vacated by Priyan and Anjana
Jaya aunty and her husband said that they wore skull caps
Narayanan, wearing sacred thread and sandalwood paste on his forehead,
Anthony with rosary and sacred amulet
After them,
Youngsters of this type were not seen so nearby
One night, when I went out of my way to touch that tree,
I heard speech of a rhythmic nature
From the room of those who wore caps
It passed through my mind, ‘these are times when words become music.’

It was a Friday.
While watering Basil plants,
Saw the branches of the banyan on the ground.
Its leaves, like heart shattered..
Whitish veins drained of blood
my eyes hurt
As I ran to it,
Saw the tree,
Looking like a worshipper whose hands were cut
While crying, beseeching the heavens , arms outstretched.

Father,
You used to say that there were many types of trees
Which tree is used to make crosses to crucify humans, Father?