By Kuzhur Wilson    (trans by Ra Sh)

It could be said that I, who should reach the office by 4, reached only at 4.35
because I spent much time jacking off fantasizing about that girl
who never got clearly imprinted in my mind despite best efforts.

But, that wasn’t the case.

It could be said that I, who should reach the office by 4, reached only at 4.35
because of a luxurious bath dissolving in the new brand of Chandrika soap.

But, that wasn’t the case.

That wasn’t the case at all. May be an incident which you will never accept as true  could be the case. That was the case.
That indeed was the case. It happened so. It happened approximately so.

While driving along granting the police enough cause to book me, by switching on the AC
and setting the volume of music high and switching off the AC and lowering the volume of music
and looking at the watch and switching on the AC and setting the music at a high volume again
and looking at the watch and looking with scorn at the cell phone in the silent mode
and again switching on the AC and switching it off
and again setting the volume of music high and switching it off,

There stood the house of death beyond that curve. I see it every day. A cute house
that prompts one to sing how pretty you are today! I didn’t stop the car, folks. It stopped by itself.
I have never seen such a house of death looking like a dome of gold. Upon my father, I haven’t, I swear.
As I enter the house, a hum on my lips, flower upon flower look at me and smile.
They smile at me with a hum that says you scoundrel never have you thrown even a glance at us
though we have always been here laughing aloud from the edges of the fence.
As if the song how pretty you are to look at has come alive. O flowers in the house of death how pretty you are to look at (like you, I am not bothered that grammar is all twisted here.) How pretty you are to look at!

Among the flowers lay the dead man who was as pretty. Don’t have to sing that I sang the how pretty you are song. That house was the chorus of the song how pretty you are. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s wife. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s kids. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s neighbours. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s friends. How pretty you are sung even the dead man’s mom.
You may not believe this. My ancient desire, that wish of my life, to give a kiss to the dead man at that precise moment pulled down all barriers.

I gave I gave I gave a kiss to that man.

The reek of alcohol mixed with the fragrance of Ittar. Mixed with the scent of flowers. Mixed with the scent of burning incense.

Oh! I gave him a kiss.

Folks, it was not like giving a kiss to an acquaintance dead or not. Honestly no.
A kiss given to an unacquainted dead man. No issues whether it was right to give a kiss or receive one. Oh! Even after writing so much I am not satiated.

I only remember that, reeking with the smell of liquor and letting out a nasty swear word, he asked me where have you been all these days?

Now, I am entering my office at 4.35. You know why I got late today. The dead man too.

The name was Antappan.
On his wedding invitation
He printed the famous words
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi -
(Today it's me, tomorrow it will be you.)

Whoever  asked
“Are you nuts, Antappaaa?”
Got a voiceless laugh in reply.

In native tongue
The laughter said
No quotes are quoted
Except through one’s own life.

Though not a charming name
It ‘s true that from that day
Antappan came to be called
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan.


Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Wolfed down the pork and the beef.

Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi CrasTibi Antappan’s wedding
Gifted pretty sums of money in envelopes.

Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Said nasty comments about the bride.

Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Asked the sound system guy to play
You are lucky I am lucky loudly.

But before that a small incident at the church. As soon as he set his eyes on Antappan who was a grave digger the Chaplain forgot the wedding and without asking who died began to set the church bell tolling in that rhythm reserved for deaths. The senior Priest who heard it came running and opening the small prayer book for the dead began to sing the song the seeds sprout in the fields when it rains. Hearing that the girls in the choir sang the rest of the song when they hear the clarion call life sprouts in the dead and went on to the prose portion I call you lord from the abysses. Seeing that the boy who helps with the communion lighted the candle and incense stick for the dead. (Meanwhile the bride’s naughty song you who is not dead yet will you not **** me tonight also rang in Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s ears.) Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan who realized that the same flowers meant to be wreaths at some house of death were now adorning his ***** as a garland laughed his famous voiceless laugh.

One Sunday
On one of our many births  
We
must become the Pappa and Mamma
of an ancient Nazrani tharavadu.

I will go in the morning
And return with
A kilo of beef  meat
With bones
Two kilos of tapioca
And may be also a *** of toddy
From the toddy tapper.

While I slice the meat
You will crush the coconut mix
In the grinding stone.

I will come, now and then,
And wipe my face
In the chatta and mundu
Draped folds of yours.

Go away you shameless man
You will dub  
The slogan of a coy mistress.
Meanwhile
I’ll drum quick rhythms  
On your buttocks
Graced
With pleats.

The kids will see
You’ll repudiate, with your eyes

With the sun
Our bodies also will get warmer
Drops of sweat
Will make studs
On your
Nose.
With the fold of
My chequered mundu
I will wipe them off.

The sun will grow warmer
The toddy inside
Will simmer
In our bodies
An insatiable hunger will torment.

The aroma of
The beef curry with the coconut mix
That you cooked
Will drift into my nose.
Unable to control the craving
I will pick
Tapioca pieces from it and eat.
The hot bits will smolder my tongue.

“You Glutton”  
You will then
Whisper to my ears

By the time I wash my hands and sit
Calling out to the kids
And you, to come for lunch
The 12.30 bell will ring in the church.

From that unexpected
Sunday
Which we spent
Stingily
We will set aside
Some memories
for the next creation.



**Trans: Shyma P

Around 4 in the evening, I proceeded to Karaikkal, a Union Territory.

By the time we reached Nagapattinam, I noticed that the driver was tired and asked him to have a strong cup of tea. When he was gulping it reluctantly, I, who did not like strong tea, watched the cows walking along the narrow ways. But, the cows did not look at me. The cows I watched. The cows that did not pay any attention to me. I was a bit out of breath realizing how quickly nonexistent relationships were formed in an unknown Tamil village.  I lit up one more cigarette. I remembered the doctor in Britain, a stunning beauty, who prescribed that as soon as I found it difficult to breathe I should light up a cigarette. ****! When it is hard to breathe because of nonexistent relationships and when I light up a cigarette as an antidote to that, there appear row upon row of relationships of some sort or other.  

I began to detest bitter strong tea. I was irked by the cows that went along the narrow ways. I felt hatred towards their not so small udders. An afternoon dawned one day when I felt the same kind of vengeance towards udders. The blood stains from the udders that were slashed down emerged on my hands, legs, back and under belly.

Once again I felt revulsion for bitter strong tea. The driver sipped the hot bitter tea. I hated the moment when I asked him to have tea. I loathed the words that I used to say that. I despised even the words that I had kept in reserve to say that.

Then, I watched the people etching tattoos by the roadside. I wondered how it will be if I got a tattoo for myself.  I tried to recall how deep I was to get a tattoo done.

A person I liked.
A name I liked.
A place I liked.
A digit I liked.
A syllable I liked.
A memory I liked.

I felt a lot of aversion. Wondered if I should tattoo my mother’s name on my shoulder. I found it amusing that when I die people may identify me by my mother’s name. But, I felt sad when I thought that stranger women may plant their kisses on it. ****! I felt so sad.  I abhorred those bitter cups of tea and narrow ways. I lit up one more cigarette.  Then, I, who tattooed my mother’s name on my shoulder, started decaying on the spot.  Rotting with a terrible stench. The people, the cows and the goats that I did not mention before bolted.  Abruptly, the driver came and told me that we could move from there.  I felt so bitter towards even the bitter tea that was inside him.

Somehow, we reached Karaikkal. Yes, at 630 in the evening. Even though I had never been to Karaikkal, a Union Territory, I sat on the same chair in the same corner of the same bar. The bearer poured me the wine.

He kept pouring the wine.
He kept pouring the wine.
The wine kept emptying.
The wine kept emptying.
The wine kept unraveling.
The wine kept unraveling.

It was a Dutch woman who gathered me up and took me with her when I got totally unraveled. She was older than me. There was no power in her room. The way she washed my body in lukewarm water could have put to shame even the midwives giving a bath to babies. When I rose up sometimes and asked her name, she sealed my lips with hers. When it was repeated many times, I thought that her name must mean something like a kiss. And, she never spoke a word except with lips.

Unraveling wine, lukewarm water, the nonstop conversation by lips. Though lips got tired, I heard the murmur from my pelvis. She too must have heard that. She touched my *****. Quite a guy she exclaimed cracking a joke. Told her I salvaged it from the sea at Tanjore and it was some temple mast some sculptor abandoned. If it’s a temple mast, let the festival begin she said.

It was some festival.
Festival of festivals.
Black lacquer bangles, vermilion, ribbons
Hydrogen balloons
Spinning tops
It was some festival.
Festival of festivals.

A simile as washed out as a festival ground emptied of crowds. For the lack of a better one.  Returned from Karaikkal, a Union Territory, at some hour.  I dumped that taxi driver on the way. Not only because I was disgusted with bitter tea, but also because his name was not Thintharoo.

I can never again put up with a driver whose name is not Thintharoo.




**(trans by Ra Sh)

On the 9th, I was driving in a hurry from Jerusalem to Jerico, laden with kisses for you.  A cop waved me down at the Bank junction at Aluva. Unnerved, the car hit something. All your kisses scattered on the road. My hands, legs, face and ***** blushed with gashes. My kisses for you lay around in the middle of the road. The orphan kids from Janaseva were picking them up. They packed them in their sling bags. A beggar woman who was passing by picked up one to smell it. College going kids make fun of my kisses for you. A cop tramples one of them with his boot.  A pock marked tipper truck crushes it under its wheels. A procession agitating for drinking water marches past it. My kisses for you are strewn in the middle of the road and holler for the moistness of your lips. Covered in a sheet woven with wounds, I lie on a hospital bed. Lamenting 'my kisses, my kisses’, you catch a flight and land in Nedumbassery.  You come to see me. In haste, you forget to buy me oranges.

I kept looking at you.
It was raining outside.

I looked at your lips.
Then, all the flowers in the front yard roll in laughter.

I look at your throat.
Then, a white dove takes off from a mango tree.

I look at your ears.
Then, a thrush flies off seeking its mother.

I look at your strands of hair.
Then, the plumeria leaves pick lice from each other.

I look at your eyes.
Then, the well in the court yard gives a missed call to the sea.

I look at your nose.
Then, the glare outside sketches the spring.

I look at your arm pits.
Outside, yellow woods sing a song.

I look at your *******.
Outside, bird’s eye chilies stand sharply *****.

I look at your cleavage.
A mother who bore six squats outside and coughs.

I at your navel.
Outside, a thousand bats.

I at your feet.
Then, a sweet gooseberry falls on the yard.


At knees.
At tender thighs...

Always
Always then
Outside, the drum beats of a road show grow in crescendo.

I trace pictures of our kids on your lips.

Then, in the middle of the road, the souls of kids crushed under wheels queue up with oranges to meet us.

When you and I wail without a sound, a slice from it falls on the ground. I make up a simile that tears are the slices of oranges that drop from the hands of those who have not had enough of loving. You give me one more kiss. I stash it away doubting whether you will be near when I die.  Our kisses attack us asking us whether we will abandon them again. We lie on the hospital bed covered in wounds from the kisses. A bunch of angels come with syringes and bitter pills. We run away without paying the bill. Our kisses follow us like a procession of bare bodies with running noses. Unable to bear the sorrow, you hug them right on the highway. I buy a cigarette from the petty shop nearby and, puffing on it, watch you.



Translation : Ra Sha

Kamarul is going to his village
All of us are going home with him

Kamarul is bringing
A bangle for his sister
Rafeeq almost buys up a jewellery  shop

Kamarul takes as saree for his mother
Divakaran is busy searching for a clothes shop

While making tea
While emptying waste-baskets
While feeding new paper into the printer,

Kamarul sings his own song
All of us sing aloud privately

While going down in the lift,
He learns to count
4
3
2
1

All of us leap towards zero

Kamarul  goes home,
Taking our letters

To the plant on earth
To the wind that blows in the evening
To the friend who promised to come

To everyone, for everyone

We wave our hands, wondering
What would be the time on earth

One

O spring,
You have a thousand apparel

Green yellow blue
Red pale blue light green
Greenish yellow

Why do you, who make everyone envious,
Spreading  folds worked with golden thread
Inviting everyone to ‘see see’
Come to visit only me wearing black raiment?

Are you too conserving
Your intensely hued flowers
For my tomb,
Just like everyone else?

Two

Perhaps it is to collect
Enough breath to last two- three years
That, while leaving home,
One sighs like a tornado

But
Every time
When I depart after meeting you
Why do I sigh,
Like a final prayer,
As though I was hoarding enough breath
For a lifetime?

Have we studied together?
Or some function
In the same row

Was it when you got tired standing in the queue

Or else at some bus stop
Or

Not in the telephone book
Maybe in the list of people to be invited
Among  names that are listed hoping
They might come in useful sometime
No, not even that

Were you the same before?

I don’t remember
Uttering your name
For any purpose

You are like people in dreams
The one who fell in the well
The one who was driving
The one who stopped me even before the sea,
Something like that

I think your name exists for me to forget it

To think I am mute is one way
To think  you are deaf is another ..

Intelligent believers of democracy,
Let me inform you with a great surge of emotion that I am a candidate in this election
I beg you, request you, beseech you to make us win with great majority  by casting every vote of yours for our symbol

I don’t have to recount the great services rendered by our logo in houses, by-lanes, churches, temples, offices, hotels-  why, in buses, hospitals, monasteries, cemeteries, and every nook and corner of the land

About its great desire to fill even the stomachs of those little children who sleep along the roadside, with no one to look after them

Our sign cannot ignore the mothers and sisters who work in factories of sighs, with only half their stomachs full. That’s why even after being totally spent, it resurrects itself again and again.

Its social sense which decries that even those bodies  on hospital beds, half-burnt, should get justice.

Wont the dead have unquenched desires
Just like the living?

The greatness of our emblem and its universality which embraces unborn babies, the living and the dead, without any consideration of caste or creed or ***

About its reproducibility, the sense with which it can raise or lower itself as the opportunity demanded, its will power which helps it work with a passion, its power to please, its divine gift to give peace and happiness

What about its readiness to sacrifice even the last drop? It thinks only about giving! Please do not fall into the traps of the other signs which are never satisfied whatever it got, and which are ready to split any moment.

Let me ask  you, have we come first in anything? China is standing like its great wall..let me remind you that  if everyone tried together to raise our symbol to great heights, we can at least come first in population

Please do not let go of the chance to win, listing unpolitical arguments like headache, hunger, hatred etc

Our slogan
Contentment for everyone from children to old people

A land where milk flows

Don’t know who writes  or when
Just like cinema posters get changed according to times,
Misspelt swear words appeared on the wall of the ******.

What was written using moss, coal and laterite was sometimes like this..

“The air is aromatic here. Rajiv + Sindhu
A picture of a heart with an arrow through it
Songs like “Rajan sir and Bhanu teacher are in love, man”

Walls got filled
In vengeance to the beatings and impositions.

Amidst the stench of **** and *****,
Love blossomed between moss

The girl’s ****** stood like a temple

The God of the joyful
And the God of the sorrowful
Met on the dawn
Of those who had gone for a walk

Even though they belonged to the same family,
They didn’t even acknowledge one another

The eyes of the God of the sorrowful
Were in the sky
Birds are making fun of him

Clouds ?
They stood their ground,
Stating, ‘ we are not with you’.

The eyes
Of the  God of the joyful
Were on earth
Plants on earth
Smile at him
Dogs, cats and horses
Were vying with one another to walk with him.
The God of the sorrowful told
The God of the joyful,
“Brother,
Sometime or the other
On earth, or sky,
Or in the toilet of the passenger train,
Or in the corner of the bar of the poor,
Or in some Hatta in Sharja
Or in the kitchen of the labour camp
Or in a room of a house with rent  unpaid
Or in court
Or on some strong tree branch
Or in a pawn shop
Or in the middle of the road where children die from collision with vehicles
Or in some sorcerer’s hut

My people will see you
What will you tell them?

In the storm-like **** of the God of the joyful,
The cosmos started gasping for breath.

The coconut climber’s chicken
Is in the well
The climber started to climb into the well
Feet downwards, steps downwards
The chicken climbes again
Fish climb higher
The coconut climber reaches the tip of the well
In between, when he looked down, saw the top of the coconut tree
Saw several heads
The coconut climber is at the tip of the well
Police came
People came
Started to pull out the climber.

When the bakery was bought,
For the sake of novelty, uniqueness, etc,
Called it ‘bitter’

Laddu was bitter
Jalebi ws bitter
Cherry was bitter
Bitter, bitter

What bitterness, said people

The servant got bitter
Sir,
There are no bill collectors to turn away
Flies mock
She at home
Serves bitterness

While sharing the alienation
Which novelty and uniqueness supplied,
With eatables,
Biscuit said

Let’s add the salt of tears,
Eatables will not sell
If bitter

‘Please give me something old”
When the sound of a beggar
Intervened

Myself, who stood for novelty and uniqueness
Told him ‘ you can have this bakery’

The lion was extremely lonely
He was wandering around, singing
I am at loggerheads with  you, world

Vomited, watching rabbits eat from the same green plate
Got fever watching crocodiles wallow, wet, in water and in sunshine
Sprained the neck in the giraffe’s interference in neighbour’s affairs
Got all seized up in the tortoise’s stillness
Which wouldn’t put its limbs or head outside, scared of being tried as a witness
Deafness because of the praises sung by foxes

Lonelier than the lonely because of sickness

The envy was
For the freedom trees had on earth as well as the skies
The surprise was
About the solidarity of ants, bees,  herds of deer while they grouped
Fear was the lair
Courage was the ATM card

Unhappiness was,
That the royal insignia which got imprinted in the soil
Closed all doors of any living presence coming near
It was with the heart of the storm that I walked among the plants

“The form of beast that swallowed fire”,
Was what the elephants murmured among themselves

Doff the silk attire of loneliness and come,  Invited water

His aim in the well was a life partner

Mulling over a poem,
While awaiting cigarettes
At the grocery,
The one from Kasargod asked

Is your women here?

I got startled for a moment,
Wondering whether he saw
Everyone inside me

O grocery person from Kasargod,
Who labels the many inside a single female by one word,

Leave me there,
You go into my poem….


*In Malabar, in ordinary parlance, they say “women” when they mean one woman.
I confronted this way of speaking more after reaching the Gulf.

Was getting ready
To interview
Someone
Who goes to and from the office
Daily in an ambulance

All questions
About death
Were interrupted by life

So I changed track
And ferreted about for questions on life
Then death too barged in

About an ordinary vehicle becoming an Ambulance,
About an ambulance becoming
An ordinary vehicle

A casual end,
As if there is no homework needed
For the world’s most boring interview.

O' body, O' dear body...
It's the mackerel you gobbled up yesterday.
Why else does this cat circle you
The third time again.

Silence! O' gut.
Keep thy waves down for a while
At least until the
Cat's wide gaze passes by.

O' body, O' dear body...
Be careful at the beach.
You are in their home land;
What if all those fish inside you
Rush up to the sea.


What if their friends try
Knocking at the doors of
Each of your cells.

O' body, O' dear corpse...
What if you finally come back
To the shore with a thousand fish-kiss.

O' body, O' dear body...
What if
Everything you savoured,
Everything you devoured,
Came to life before you, in a flash.

O' body, O' dear body...
What if you let
Your thirty-year-old breast milk
At the first sight of baby.

Or may be, the bread
And the roast meat
Came up in search of those tiny lips.

O' body, O' dear body...
What if those tender *******
Show up to bedazzle
A sunny noon at the dearest city
And what if the dank aroma
Makes you 'spill' all over again.

O' body, O' dear body...
What if the cattle inside
Come out to graze
At the sight of the meadow

What if that cockerel
Jumps out into the courtyard
At the sight of his hen

And the frogs inside
Start croaking at every downpour.
And the birds that settled in you
Yearn for the skies

O' body, O' dear body,
All those fish, birds and beasts,
Leaping out of thee.
O' body, O' thy soul… -

this tree would grow big
and bear fruits

crows would come
honeybees,
ants, centipedes and all

then the wind, rain
and sunshine would come

savour the taste,
in one way or another

the tree would grow again

when the branches
grow beyond their reach
children would leave the tree

then comes the contractor,
and the chopper and carpenter
arrive in their turn

when the chisel touches
the same branch, where
the crow used to sit,
there arises a sound, cawing

hearing the sound
the remaining children
would fly away sturned

when the nail pierces
its windblown shoulder
there 'll be an eerie silence

desolate like the midday
of friday without anyone
going to the church

gradually it becomes the door
and enters inside
and sits as a chair,
then lay down-
as a cot, tired

I am waiting for her
under that tree

Sorrow comes,
Goes

Happiness comes,
Goes

Love comes
Goes

Lust comes,
Goes

Wonder
Surprise
Hatred,
Love

Comes
Goes

It is not because
I do not press it
To stay awhile

Comes
Goes

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Sitting in its congested patio,  
Beheld the sky

That sky spilled over the sky
Stars squirmed and threatened to jump down immediately

We were like the children beneath the mango tree who do not rush to school
Even after the last bell

The wind may blow any moment

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Descried the sea
Sitting inside its smoke-filled, odorous kitchen

That sea overflowed the sea

The fish swimming along in the deep asked, “coming?”

We were
Like the fisherman waiting for the snakehead murrel
Though it is noon and he is hungry

The sea fish do not know
The grooves of tears and the little waterway

Rainclouds can arrive anytime

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Saw the woods sitting near its un-curtained window


Those woods got darker than woods
Trees pretending to cavil for my being late

Moonlight clear and fuzzy amongst boughs

Us, like fireflies watching ripened paddy stalks

There are wounds that are hidden
A lightning can strike any moment

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Sitting in its spaces coarse otherwise
We quenched each other’s thirst and hunger
Argued
Prayed
Perused the holy book

Often, while no one watched,
We fed the dolls
Sung them lullabies

On these occasions,
I went out pretending that I wanted a smoke

Thereupon, between us
Sky sea  woods.

While walking hither and thither
Thinking that tonight, the world will set,
While lying , wondering what to do now,
A headache will come in an autorickshaw
The dinner will be skipped
But what stung will not be a comparatively harmless water snake
That viper will sting
during nightly dreams
Again and again
O my! I am dead!

Then ammini, lying nearby
Will cry once,
Assuming “Oh, oh, father is gone”
While I look thinking that she cried in her sleep
Lo! She will smile
Thereupon, outside,
A full moon will laugh with her

That smile is enough
To lose sleep
Then I will get up,
Go out
While I walk hither and thither
Through the full moon’s laughter,
On the Devil Tree in the yard,
A Yakshi will cry and laugh

Then I will get tired
Duly I will come inside and lie down to sleep
The world I thought had set
Will rise in the east
Then what do I do?
Was it me who died yesterday
Or
Someone else we thought of?


(Salim Kumar , An actor)

If it were a shirt or underwear,
I could have thrown it into that corner
This, now, is body
It is not enough to wash it the ordinary way in the bathroom
Have to give it to the sea or the river
Like giving the very soiled clothes to the washerman
Perhaps it will give it back.

After the morning walk,
While returning,
Bought two bananas from the tea shop

While eating it,
Tried sketching the person
Who cultivated it, in my imagination

Where would the farmer
Who grew the bananas
That I am eating now, be?

Will he be sleeping
Or farming?

Will he be

While thinking about the farmer,
Remembered father, who was an agriculturist himself

Pity!

It was necessary to buy a banana
For this ungrateful seed
To remember its own cultivator!

O rain,
That falls
On the green
That I love most
Let me kiss
Your tender chest

Nobody to come, or go
Alone, alone, alone,
Have to bear the heat and odors of earth

Was the world built by someone?
In it, the marks of a kiss
By me or you
Is graffiti

In Ethihad’s cabin
Your name is Mariyamma,
Mine is..

The sound of someone singing on earth
Mother might be crying
You might be singing
Or else I might be muttering about myself

There is only one place to say
Peace, peace
Your mother’s ******
Only one way to come out

To go inside, at least a thousand ways, but
All blocked
With what Ammu, Ammini and you have earned

Not as beasts,
Not as humans,
It was not father
Or mother
Who gave birth
To us as us
Someone else..

Will name a dream after you
Will name another one after you
If you miss at one, you will get it right at three
I will give my name to the third dream

A mouthful of grain is a word
There is a mouth
There is rice
When these two combine
You
Like myself,
So unbearable,
Love.

Children,
Was it the food you ate
Or the tall and hefty  myself
You or me
You or me

Please take with you
The care and protection
Of this SMS
In the morning
When
Anxieties leave

As I fight like a butcher,
No,
No,
Preethi, from Maha Iranikkulam
Calls me to take a bath in the temple pond

Was it you
Or me
Or our children?

Amma,
Amma,
Amma,

Amen.

I will tell
Surely tell
Wait until Meenakshi teacher arrives
I will surely tell

That you’d pinched me
You had hit me
You’d hidden my umbrella
Your hand had delved into my lunch box
And you picked up and ate the tender mango pickle
I’ll tell everything

That you’d peeped into my math book
And copied my homework
You’d forged my handwriting
You’d spilled violet ink
On the cover page of my science book
You’d inscribed
“I love you” in my palm
You’d scored on my back with the compass
Everything, everything

You’d called me names
Didn't you call me monkey?
I’ll tell that too
You threw the marbles
That my grandpa had bought me
Into the river
I’ll tell that too
You spoiled my new slate
That my brother had got me
That too

You had written in page fifteen
Of my double lined copy book
That Padma teacher isn’t good
I’ll tell that too

Well, nope
Not saying that
What if Meenakshi teacher relishes that
You may end up getting fewer whacks

At any cost I’ll tell
That you’d eaten
Raw mango with salt
In the classroom

Before the teacher came in
You’d written
The film song on the board
For sure I’ll tell that
Just wait and see
Teacher is going to grill you
You’ll cry
You’ll burst into tears
I’ll see that and burst into laughter

When you cry
I’ll drop some ants into your bag

Oh!
Have you already
Started to cry
Now wipe your tears
Hey, come and sit
Here
Next to me.

(If
you give me a kiss
on my cheek,
I won’t
tell anything.
What you refuse to give me that?
You don’t need to give that for free
When I grow up
I’ll return that;
Will give you double
Of what you give

Forgot to ask you something
The birth before the last
You’d borrowed
A 316 kisses
From me
When will you return them?)

I wish
to go to school with you

(Letters from inside My Stomach – A Part )

No, it wasn’t happening for the first time

I don’t know whether anyone wrote ‘Tattered sky’ in a poem before. Maybe it was me. I haven’t met a poet in whose life memory and forgetting are so mixed up. Even if I wrote, maybe I had forgotten it..

Still, I am sure I am the first poet to write ‘tattered sky in the lake’ for the first time in the world. Otherwise, ask those crows pecking it to tatters. Or ask the kingfishers who fly in that tattered sky.

It is not the first time it is happening, you know?

I have cried in keka and kakali meters. I have begged in kalakanchi. I have lied in kalyani. I have laughed and guffawed  in anushtup and sardula vikriditham. I have masturbated in slathakakali, and ****** in anna nada, and let it flow innathonnatha. I have dozed in manjari and died in maakandamanjari. I have gone mad in mandakranta, and have lost myself in meters i don’t know the names of.

Two nuns who went to Aluva river sands to pay annual obeisance to the dead to Jesus

One day, while going via Aluva, i saw two nuns. They were two poor women going to Aluva river sands to pay to Jesus the annual obeisance to the dead.  One among them had the looks of my mother, and the other, that of my girl friend at the church compound. Even when i recited aloud VG Thampi’s lines ‘I am Jesus, unfinished’ they didn’t listen to it. They were not in any way related to me. Then, i was a handicapped Jesus.

It is not the first time it is happening, you know?

I have cried in keka and kakali meters. I have begged in kalakanchi. I have lied in kalyani. I have laughed and guffawed  in anushtup and sardula vikriditham. I have masturbated in slathakakali, and ****** in anna nada, and let it flow innathonnatha. I have dozed in manjari and died in maakandamanjari. I have gone mad in mandakranta, and have lost myself in meters i don’t know the names of.

My name was Shemeer then

In the hospital at NAD, my job was to sleep in the place of that fat insomniac doctor. My name then was Shemeer. I can’t prove through my writing how well I performed my job snoring loudly all the way.  I don’t think anyone would have worked like this so totally oblivious of oneself. My sleep was not in the least affected by the rounded ******* of doctor’s jasmine vine of a wife, or by the odour (i wanted to say smell) which was capable of bringing the dead back to life. Moreover, his two candle-like daughters used to play hopscotch on my bed sheet, which was my work place.  But what to say? They dismissed me from my job for opening my eyes a wee bit on a day at dusk. I heard a shriek. That too, a familiar one. They had brought Madhavi Chothi to the hospital when her asthma got worse. True, i did open my eyes. I am Shemeer, the one who was dismissed from his job for the first time in history, for having startled awake from sleep.

It is not the first time it is happening, you know?

I have cried in keka and kakali meters. I have begged in kalakanchi. I have lied in kalyani. I have laughed and guffawed  in anushtup and sardula vikriditham. I have masturbated in slathakakali, and ****** in anna nada, and let it flow innathonnatha. I have dozed in manjari and died in maakandamanjari. I have gone mad in mandakranta, and have lost myself in meters i don’t know the names of.

One could have adjusted at least a day..**

Something that smelt of breast milk. I think my name was Shinto or so at that time. I was an altar boy who had lost his belief in names after having cognac from a bar in Chicago. There was a little bird too. From that day, i developed the habit of calling even a crow a little bird. Whatever it maybe, there was a little bird. And that bird was building a nest. The bird brings the twigs, strands of hay, a bit of a flex sheet broken at the edge of a word. The bird brings a red wire, the bird brings. It was beginning to take life in the address ‘The Little Bird, Nest, Tree PO ‘. A day. A week. An year. Yes, it took a long, long time. Bird, nest, tree.. tree, nest, bird.. The moment i asked ‘Hey little bird, don’t you have kids?’,  it flew away. Here it comes with its little ones to occupy its home. Yes, that very day. On that day, just after those who won the tender contract, had cut that tree down. This was too much. They could have adjusted at least a day..

It is not the first time it is happening..

Vegetarian

After she divided

The gills and scales for the crow and the cat

Head for the youngest girl
Tail for the smart son

Middle pieces
For husband and his friend,

She became vegetarian

Worried about being accused of the stench,
Washed hands again and again

Devout**

Fasted
In answer to the question
Why haven’t you eaten?

Fasted in front of the innocence
Which asked “Do you want this, mother?

After fasting so many times
She became known as very devout.

While searching for Sougandhikam,
Four viruses barred Bheema’s way

He got flustered, unable to chase them
Using his mace and strong muscles

Sougandhikam was mis-spelt many times

Eyes got tired visiting all sites about flowers galore

Mukkutti.com, bougainvillea.com,
Orchid, leuca indica,
The thottavadi.com which shrank on contact with the mouse

Journey without fear of thorns
Flowers bloomed in the water springs of the rock-hard body

Muttered “flower”, “flower” frequently

Dot coms where fleshy blooms flourish
Time and again, forgot the wife who was insulted?

While sitting in amazement in front of a site about wrestlers,
A message
Subject hint about Sougandhikam

In the inbox, ‘black moon’ with the sings(symptoms) of Sougandhikam

He liked the fragrance-less flower from Latin America

Not a step more in this jungle,
He decided in his mind
And downloaded black moon

Morphed it, made slight changes
Then a color print

Panchali, who was bored stiff though she was the wife of five, jumped in glee

Took four Photostat copies of Sougandhikam and went to apply for a doctorate

An odorless lie bloomed in history.

while drawing the map of India
I know of a kid who was
worried as to where was Kuzhoor

a sketch job that took just five minutes
to score three marks
misled him many a time

between the question paper and the answer sheet
he
searched for his canal, bunds and fields

here’s Varkey chettan’s tea stall
there’s the butcher shop
here cricket is played
Subramonnian temple there
Kundoor river bank here
the friends wait here
Preethi turns into the alley here
like that he marked

even after the warning bell
India wouldn't be drawn in full

Kashmir not marked at all





Translation : Rajasree

Saw women
Waiting at the bus stop

Heard the new cinema song
From the advertising vehicle

Asked the stranger sitting near me
Whether he was not going to Pota ashram

In conductor’s seat
Slumbers a traveler without a ticket

Under the label of defense forces,
Two school children
On the Ladies’ seat,
Padre from the local church

“The lady who brings this card is an orphan
Her family was lost in floods
She is the only one for herself and her child
A blue card fell in my lap.

How did I become blind?
Beating time on the stomach,
A Tamil song stretched its arm
Became deaf

A girl became mute
“do you remember this face?”

Sat on the seat for handicapped
With a sense of belonging and righteousness.

Once, I was, with a thin body,
And a sound which roared
Louder than the ocean

Only the banned loud speakers
Are needed as proof

Remember standing on the street,
As a thousand flowering  tongue-trees

Remember standing guard in my hometown,
A torch stuck on my chest

Remember asking
How Itteera became Itteera

Today, after translation,
When I look in the mirror,
Word has got swollen,
It lies dormant behind the bars of the specs

Similes have developed a paunch
Metaphors have gone obese

Wonder whether my poems will recognize me

Cannot walk,
Cannot get up ,
Been sitting for such a long time

I wish to devour everything new
But  start gagging as soon as I see it

God almighty,
If I miss my exercise,
My 400-page autobiography
Will end in diabetes.

Flaming hunger
Oh, not that at all
A Photostat of that

As though I am sipping a beer
I am relishing a sun’s half,
That is sending golden sunlight
To the wooden chair and the money plant

O God
It will be twilight soon
Hey sun,
You will sink into the sea without a half!

Sky and earth and the sea
Will ask as one,
Lamenting and ridiculing at the same time

Where’s the other half?

The poet is laughing
After having consumed
A sun’s half completely,
Sitting in the armchair.

En route from Dharmapuri
To Krishnagiri
Amid the tamarind trees
There goes a flock of sheep

Shaking heads
Jumping merrily
Hither and thither

Behold!  there, one man becomes
A flock of sheep

Evolving in to
A black little lamb,
A mother sheep munching on paper
And a goat kicking another one
Among the group

There! a flock of sheep
That has turned in to a man!

Where on earth
Are you?
Wails the flock of sheep
Bleating be..........be......teasingly
Tongue brushing  ear lobes
with ruminating saliva

Beside that flock of sheep,
Dragging along a wounded right leg,
Staring at the sky
Standing transfixed,
The shepherd was the other person

He was a memory
Of having been a flock of sheep once...
On each path he treads
A thousand flocks of sheep passes
In joy and mirth

Despite being poor at herding
The one who happened to stop by
Bumping on a lamb that fell down

The photostat of a goat
With burned legs

Lying in the womb of a pregnant sheep
He is sleeping...

Looking at each bird
That flew across the sky
He laments
That they are his lost sheep
Beckoning the crows, sparrows and parrots

The birds in turn fly away
Frightened
As though seeing a hunter

The stick he held
Was mistaken for an arrow
Piercing the ground

His prayers,
Not to let them fall
In to the lakes of the sky
Was blocked by the clouds...

En route from Dharmapuri
To Krishnagiri
Amid the tamarind trees
There, goes a flock of sheep
There, a shepherd  !

Like what you feel when you see
Tree in bloom
By the wayside

The same as what you feel when you see
A very old lady smiling

When I heard a noise in the morning
I felt this, that

Tears,
Like the ascetic who arrives
uninvited
For performing
Auspicious rites,

Cannot sit,
Cannot walk
The unbearable happiness

Wishing to do many things
But not doing anything
A huge ice piece of happiness

No, not enough,
A snow mountain of happiness!

Curry Leaf Tree

It must be because
I have not seen a lush curry leaf tree
For the last 6 years
That I always watered
A curry leaf tree
In my mind of minds

Daily it flourishes,
Getting greener and greener

There is no distinction
Between strangers or close ones, Everyone who saw it
Used to take its leaves

It will bow down
In front of those
Who cannot reach the branches,
So that they can snap the twigs again and again

When the smell of curry spreads,
All houses, along with the kids,
Will become strange,
Spreading a lot of happiness
Let them call my darling leaves ‘curry leaves’

Don’t cry, my children


Neem tree**

For the last 6 years,
What is observed with a full heart
Is neem trees
Standing row upon row

Whenver possible,
I will fit into its shade
If no one saw me,
I Give a kiss
You should see the smile
Exposing its light green gum
Then

How many came,
How many went
Feel sad
When I see the detachment of the graying leaves,

“Come if you must,
Stay if you will,
Go if that is what you wish”
Isn’t this what your body language speak
Standing there?

Listening to the song ‘daddy, super daddy’,
Worried and sad thinking about the father long gone,
While reading the news of a father  who killed his girl child by hitting her against the wall
To some fathers and children
A father and son didn't feel anything more than that.

Remember uploading in Facebook,  the news of the soaring price of tapioca in five star hotels

The tsunami  of saliva which the tender  yellow tapioca Crowned by curry leaves and red chilly created, is in the throat.

Today noon,
After lots of news
I am cooking tapioca raw
A green bottle is nearby

When the smell of cooking tapioca with salt hit the olfactory senses
Father came

You don’t have to be the Son of God to resurrect the dead
Told Jesus that just the smell of cooking tapioca is enough

Compound divided into patches, ashes, manure,
Properly cut tapioca plants
Mother rushing to get the rice gruel

Between play and squabbles
A lad is walking around with torn trousers, shirtless
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca

For sleeping, eating, hunger
Faith,
Tapioca, tapioca

phoo

For rice gruel, mid noon
At twilight when hunger  develops faith
For last supper,
Dried tapioca

Lucky that one who was born after an enema
Was not named ‘black sheep’

With a green chilly, raw
In the shade of the green bottle
When I touch the tapioca,
Daddy is dancing

Daddy
Super daddy.

1

Doctor warned, “Your liver will strangle –
If you do not stop this habit”.
“That flower fell off long ago”
I responded.

“I might lose you if you hang on with this habit”
Gracy says.
“I already lost myself” I declared.

Next turn was my friend who is a story writer.
“I can’t see you as a character who smokes”
“You better do not have this protagonist in your tale”
I affirmed.

She whispered, “Your lips have become black”
I announced, “Not even a kiss with *** smell is available”

“Why are you deteriorating yourself” inquiry from Jinu.
“Just because, I don’t know how to spoil others”. My answer.

“K S R T C buses which arrived late taught me smoking”
A stranger said.
“I lighted a cigarette for the initial time, just for some light”.
My response with realization.

“They shout that you are a chain smoker”
My sister’s version.
“There will be no smoke without fire”
My variation.

A board in the hospital was engraved.
“No smoking here”.
“Everything else is allowed?
I asked.

“God will not pardon suicidal behavior”.
That was from Parish Priest.
I could say this much.
“Clouds are created from God’s cigar”

2

In this night filled with solitude,
God, let me have a *** which has soul and
Let me reach out to clouds.

Those were the days when cycles were aplenty

Green, red, and black were the only colors in which seats came

Children came to the arrangement that
If a green seat came, I will beat him
And if a red seat came, I will be beaten

The brave ones chose black

On the day he chose green color, friend got  31 beatings
I got 18

One who cavorts
To the beats of the percussion instrument
Does not hear
The screams of the animal

One who loses himself
In the rhythm of the Tabla
Will not read the memories of the leather

One who presents his love
With a peacock feather will not see
The blood stains where it was plucked

The one who accepts it and dances
Will not know
A bird, its feet and wing broken

One who wears hair from the elephant’s tail
To become fearless
Does not see
The life cowering under the sharp end
Of the pole used to control it,
Nor hear the rattle of chains

One who reads these lines will not read….

2009 october 9,
Sharja, ajman, dubai**

Very early,
The day
Browses through the book
On suicide

“this wooden cross of poesy
Will control
The road mishaps
Of dream travel”
I told the day
That those are my lines

He laughed
Sunlight spread

Gave the book
On suicide
To the day

Let it get dark,
He said

A father for the first time
is making
His daughter
Listen
to the sea
Named after her

Ammini,
Why don’t you
Say something?

This is the sea,
Mother ocean
Mother ocean
Gave you your name

You laugh
Listening to the roar
What do you know
About its depths
Even your father doesn’t know
Whirlpools,
Deep abysses
Waves
Oysters

Huge sharks
With protruding teeth

Keep it a bit closer, girl,
The low voice
Of a goddess

After your father
Dipped you
In the ocean,
He  wrote on the bank,

That the ocean mother is a thief

It was probably
Because she was scared of you,
Ammini,
This time,
She didn’t wipe it out

…

Who is this Ranni?
To which godforsaken place does this Ranni belong ?
Whether it is Ranni
Or Konni,
I have to drink a drop of liquor
After that, everything will be all right

In the perfect Ranni room
Of the one from Ranni
Ranni
Ranni
Ranni
Ranni, etc

There are pictures of father and mother

You are blessed
The pictures of
Father
And mother
In the words of Nazimuddin
Fair wife
Obedient children

Liquor
Gave a kiss
On the forehead
Of the one from Ranni

Would Shobha
Have ever seen me
Except through the camera?
Anilan,
Mary, Mary again,
Shihab,
Must have seen me
Changing lens after lens

As  for everyone else,
I am a picture
For Shobha

No shobha
Has seen
Me

Is it because of madness
Or in order to not become mad
O forest,
In-between
In-between
In-between
These missed calls

Those that were missed were missed all right .

In- between,
Trying to imitate
You
In your language,
I failed...

There is,
In Aluva
A Sebastian
Who vends vegetables

Sells anything
Except poems

And you?

All who smoke
Pine cigarettes
In the world
Are brothers

After I die
You should give
A packet of Pine
Along with the award given

I
Was the seller
In that grocery
One day
For one hour
In some moment

My pay
My pay

This kiss
Is this worker’s
Struggle with you

A struggle with kisses

Wow!
I feel like living

Great

See, I didn’t write this
Why do words
Come and look
In places where
They are not wanted,
at times when they are not wanted?

I will stab you
It will be over with a stab,
It should be over

As soon as a poem was over
Another one!
A lady says

Is it possible to feign deafness
when females talk to us?

But this time I fooled you!
I am not reciting a poem
It is reciting me!

Now let it think!


In the look of wonder and respect,
Girl,

I become another person,

You are with your father
Even then you whisper
That you want to hear my poem

I have seen you somewhere

My children,
Poem?
It is all gone

It smells like a cadaver
If I open my mouth


Do you know
How many people ran away?

First you gave me
A huge bunch of basil

My soul turned green,
But as I stand there
Stunned,
Thinking that you are so small - a girl,
You give again

An uncooked forest of leaves again

Hey look,
You are a girl

This kiss is on your forehead
I am not one who do not fancy
The private parts of females

My kiss is firmly on your forehead.
Because
My son is a daughter..

O body, the little fish you swallowed yesterday

Yes, those

There are no other reasons
For this cat to roam around
For the third time

Fish swallowed yesterday, do not flail about
The globular eyes of that cat

O stomach, at least
Till it goes away,
Do not upset
With the slight movements of your waves

Body, body
Cautiously by the seaside

If all the fish that got inside
Bounced on seeing the place of origin
And if their friends tried knocking on each cell
If body, your body washed up all over a shore
Kissed by fishes

Body,
If all that you looked at greedily,
All that you ate ravenously,
All that you relished slowly
Appeared before you sometime

If it appeared

Body, body,
While seeing the kids,
If breast milk from thirty years ago spread out
If cake and fried liver
start out searching  for little mouths

If all alcohol imbibed
Spurted out while meeting friends
Screamed out at midnight
Recited a ***** poem while no one was listening

Body,
On a noon, in favorite city
If two areolae appeared
And again spread brilliance
If you spilled out
Inhaling that redolence

Seeing something,
If saliva, sweat or wetness
Jump out

Body, body
If seeing greenery,
The cows and buffaloes and rabbits
Come out to graze,
Frogs start croaking
Seeing rain clouds
If seeing the sky,
The crow and crane inside
Start flying

If the **** comes out into the yard on seeing the hen,
Body, body,
If the fish, beasts and birds inside
Come out simultaneously,

Body, body,
Body’s soul…

The forgotten umbrella
Fretted

Did he get wet?
Cry because it was missing?
Would his mother have given him a beating?

Benches and desks
Are cozing

The board still retains
The day’s remnants

Night came,
The umbrella was in tears
Rain rain
Umbrella umbrella
Said the rain outside

Only  the umbrella heard
His voice was raining over the shower
“my darling umbrella”

Crying itself to sleep,
Headmaster’s room
Came in a dream

Question papers, canes
Maps, globe, skeleton,
Chalk power,
Fat lady teachers,
Farts and baloney

Startled itself awake
No, it is not light yet
Through the darkness
Nothing other than his embroidered name

Still you forgot me!

Other umbrellas came
And sat on either sides

Didn’t you get wet yesterday?
Didn’t you go home?
How can it be said that he forgot me?

There he is!
Umbrella closed its eyes

Let him come running
Give a hundred kisses

He didn’t come even after the bell rang

On opening the eyes,  saw
His new darling umbrella

Hasn’t put it down..

My precious

You become a beauty
Only when you languorously
Hug the waists of damsels as cincture

Countless are the times,
earlobes or ankles
Unadorned by you
Inflamed  me

A plain a yellow thread has ousted you nowadays

When you swing from an ear,
It is indeed fascinating to watch

You have even usurped my sleep
As a nose-ring, through its keen glitter
Costume jewellery has replaced you too, many times

Still, my precious,
It is when  you are pawned
That you become real ‘gold ‘

Like the revolutionary
Who become more so
By getting hanged

Like a soldier
Who become more of a soldier
By getting shot at the border

My precious, my precious
My precious pledged gold.

Today,
This tree was the very picture
Of a pair of birds
Who had a fight after mating.

You will never understand
The eagerness of this tree
In making every morning a new one
Or daily showing me a new movie,
However I try to describe it
One day
Leaves, that cry
“don’t go” “don’t leave”
To the wind
That passes by

Another day
Of shooing cats feasting in the shade,
On fish bone, from someone’s leftover meal,
After dribbling pigeon-droppings from a branch,

Another day
The tear-filled eyes
Of its own branch
That cries
And supplicates the sun
To heal its wound

Another day
Of its own sister branches
Or, in human parlance, wooden chairs
That have become prostitutes;
On which strange people sit casually.

One day
The Bihari
Who is scared stiff of his lord,
And who runs every time a wind blows
To sweep away the dried leaves
Which the wind has killed,
Having made violent love to them.

On yet another day,
The fruits that laugh their heads off
Along with the little blossoms that laughed once |
At the silver-blue sky

On still another day
The tap root
That suddenly burst into tears
Gazing at the dusk
That draped golden strands on boughs and twigs

On yet another day,
The aged middle-portion of the tree
That unveiled the hitherto unexposed
Moss-green nursling
And prayed that it be named
Another day before this,
Had made me sad
By asking
“Are you wont to see
the other tree-friends
Throughout the countryside ?”

Had made me heartsore
By asking me
“Would you forget me?”

Once, have asked
Whether I would point out
The mother-bird
Who sowed the seed after she ate the fruit
I have made myself broken-hearted  |
wondering
Where or how mother was.

At the moment
When the mind gets shaken up
And becomes even more fragile,
In the memory of
Some trees
That have helped some lives thrive,
Have given shade,
Given oxygen,
Crucified,

O tree,
I am hugging you,
Giving you
A frozen, but still very passionate kiss
With the Alloyed numbness of death and life :
A tree-kiss

He doesn’t know me
Neither do I, him

There is a lake between us
It is full of fish

Those fish are not his.
Neither are they mine.

The connection between us
Is that those fish do not
Belong to us

The fallen sky is still in the pond
I can see the fish diving through
The cloudy hillsides
There is no doubt that it is the fish
That stir the clouds however slightly be it

Are there fish that are undaunted by birds?
If you wish, peer into the sky in the pond

I kept wondering whether he was witnessing all this
Also, whether he comprehends my reflections

I couldn’t envisage what he saw in the pond
Neither did I have the time for it.

O, let him think whatsoever

He has a cigarette in his hand
That I too have a cigarette
Is another bond which we share

I feel that the fumes from my cigarette
And the clouds are friends
Isn’t that the reason I get vexed
About the clouds in the lake, floating, dead

His is not like that
One can see it in his face
He has no cares

He must be smoking to **** boredom

He is darker than I am
That too is a bond
But he doesn’t know
That I am actually fair
And that I am only pretending to be dark

Perhaps he was fair too once
Would he have got dark when his mother left him, forgotten?

I don’t think so; No, he is dark

The pond belonging to the clouds
The sky  fell into
My smoke fumes that roam in the company
Of clouds

Me, who is not dark..

In life

Walking through
The rows of trees on either side

Then, the standing trees
Walk backwards
I ask them to walk along with me
They walk backwards still

Walked a bit faster
The faster does the trees
Walk backwards, away from me

Tried running
Trees
Run
Backwards

I decide I will run along with the trees,
And went back

Still
They go in the opposite direction
To mine

In poetry**

It is because I feel sad
About eons that you have been standing
In the same position,
That I make you run like this,
Even though backwards..

A song comes out of the speeding bhogis,
Seeta is the one rendering the song.
She chants that her husband has long been dead.

Seeta has two sons, just like her ballads.
One –
Gives rhythm to her song.
Other –
Rubs a gentleman out of his siesta
And asks for a little money.

The bhogis gain momentum (Ignores the station master who shows red to stop the pacing male phallus)

Long away –
A girl lies down, lower than the rails.
**** me, **** me, she bangs her head.
I will, I will, the rails swell the train song in her ears.

Though long away,
Though have not heard the girl,
As if she has heard something -
Seeta stops singing.
And her children dash out.

Two hobos enter in –
As if to sell sizzling peanuts.

Just as to give the body a bath –
Seemingly not pleased just with the rails –
The male train jumps off,
Into the wide sea.
(Whose ****** is the sea, the breeze hums a song)

A thousand crows flutters from –
One’s previous birth,
To –
Another’s next birth.

Seeta, having forgotten all her songs –
Looks out for her kids.

Will arrive shortly, will arrive shortly :
Weary, irked and bored -
Time waits at a station.

(I did remember Rupesh Paul, who drew a simile between the rails and the *** worker’s nights, Anitha Thampi, who wrote about female trains, Latheesh Mohan, who noted down how the train stretches its back, Vishnu Prasad and his poem on the phallus, Prasanna Aryans usage: ****, says the wheel and ****-**** , says the rail et al , while writing this poem)

(Translated by Sherin Catherine)

Some place
Some time
There was a tea shop.
Open not just in the mornings,
But at noon and the evenings too.

Mornings, the menu read
Uzhunnuvada, idli,dosa,
Uppuma, vellayappam,idiyappam,
Sambar, payaru curry,kadala
And several chatnis.

Noon, the menu read
Aviyal,achinga,pachadi,
Kichadi,pulisseri,thoran,achar,
And several kinds of buttermilk.

Evenings, the menu read
Sukhiyan, bonda,
Pazhampori, parippu vada, mulaguvada,
Diluted milk, black coffee
And several forms of tea.

There was a cook in that tea shop.
There was an owner for that tea shop.
Both had a son each.
Those boys went to the same school.
They studied in the same class.
They sat on the same bench.

Whenever he was hungry,
One of the boys thought of
The owner of that tea shop.
Eyes widening with admiration for
The great man that he was!
He could eat anything
Whenever he was hungry,
Reaching for it in the container
Or poking his head into the food shelf
Or entering the kitchen itself.
He could take anything,
The boy salivated.

To the query “What do you want to be?”,
He even replied once that
He wanted to be that man.

But, whenever he was hungry,
The other boy thought of
The cook in that tea shop.
He lauded him in awe of
the great man that he was.
He could cook and eat
Anything any time any quantity,
He imagined jealously.

To the query “What do you want to be?”,
He even replied once that
He wanted to be that man.

Wait, don’t leave yet,
Dusting off your bottom
After reading an average poem.
Sighing indepthly
Or grunting lazily
Or belching sourly.

You are free to leave after
Answering a few questions.


Who owns this tea shop actually?
These schoolboys from the tea shop,
Whose sons are they actually?

There is another boy
Besides these two
In this poem!

Who is he?