Saturday, December 13, 2014

Say something!

The solitude of the evening
Gnaws at me
It crawls over me
Like a crippled lizard
Minutes ticking away
Turning into silent hours
They grow like a monster
Dwarfing me
There are distant voices
I long to hear
I ought to utter
Lest this boredom
Inflicts upon me
A darkness
So pitch black that
Blindness gives up
In its fight for blackness
I want to set free
From these walls
Of roaring monotony
There is an urge
To just scream
Scream out loud
Someone out there
Ought to have a word or two
To say.. to me..

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Finding love

My limbs are tired
They inflict a pain deep inside
I move and they pull
Chords within
In these tender moments
I find love
It runs deep to tell me
The strings of marriage
Have a deeper commitment
There was a need
Burning inside
To hold your hand
To feel your skin
To know the feeling
That I was protected
Ah my limbs fail me
The chords within
Resonating tempos
The feeling lingers on
Like the dew..


Let me start with a disclaimer that I may not be the right person to write about Kamala Das. I may not know the whole truth. My writing is based on my interpretation of Kamala Das from a couple of her interviews available on YouTube, her book "My story" and Merrily Weisbord's book "The Love Queen of Malabar".

The first time I heard the name Madhavikutty was from my father, when  I was a child. The name just settled down in my mind to gather dust. When I was an adult, and started my feeble attempts at writing, I read about Madhavikutty on the internet and learnt that her official name was Kamala Das. I bought "My Story" her controversial autobiography and honestly never completed reading it. I read the essentials of the book and left it there. This was more than five years ago.

Recently due to some reason I switched from fiction to non-fiction and found myself looking for books about Kamala Das. I wanted an original English work because I knew she wrote in Malayalam and personally do not prefer translated books. The element of the book, the essence of what the author pens down is lost in translation. A complete personal belief. So after some considerable research I found "The Love Queen of Malabar" by Merrily Weisbord. Since the author was Canadian, I was sure that the major text would be in English, and would be confined to limited translations. I just finished reading the book and was proud that I selected the best book.

The book is a conversation between Merrily and Kamala Das during their trips to Kerala and Canada. The acquaintance that grows into a deep friendship. I was glad that Kamala found Merrily during her later years, a compassionate friend whom she could trust.

I felt sad at the plight of Kamala Das, and I believe she wrote the truth. She was born in a time where male chauvinism was at its height. Man used women for their gains. I came to hate Sadiq Ali who was man enough to sleep with a 60+ year old woman, almost twice his age, but was a coward who succumbed to the pressures of society.  Most men are man enough to sleep with a woman, the commitment to nurture her for years to come is where he plays the dodging game.

Her story is what happens in most households. There is only one in crores of women, who can write about it, honestly. I understand why men abused her when the book "My story" was published. She was unmasking their real face. She shed the pretenses they wear when they walk out into society. 

In this book she says "This new person accepted that "marriage to Dasettan was not good, but my destiny". And since we are all just instruments of destiny, it was useless to struggle against it".

Another excerpt from the book, which lingers on -
"A writer moves away from family, old relationships, very far with the speed of a falling star... Otherwise the writer is destroyed, and only the member of the family remains: the mother, sister, daughter, wife. The writer at some point must ask, Do I want to be a well-loved member of the family? Or do I want to be a good writer? You can't be both at the same time. The days when you are with the children and are being a very good mother, you cease to be the writer. You feel repelled by the pen and the paper, which are definitely going to come between you and your loved ones."

My Grandmother's house - Kamala Das

There is a house now far away where once
I received love……. That woman died,
The house withdrew into silence, snakes moved
Among books, I was then too young
To read, and my blood turned cold like the moon
How often I think of going
There, to peer through blind eyes of windows or
Just listen to the frozen air,
Or in wild despair, pick an armful of
Darkness to bring it here to lie
Behind my bedroom door like a brooding
Dog…you cannot believe, darling,
Can you, that I lived in such a house and
Was proud, and loved…. I who have lost
My way and beg now at strangers' doors to
Receive love, at least in small change?