Tag Archives: aches

A Raving Reminiscence.

The lane is empty

Except for the kacchi kairi

Kacchi kairi strewn across on both sides.

“What is kacchi kairi?” he asks.

I turn to him, and give him an imploring look-

See for yourself.

“All I see is beaten, tattered, useless raw mangoes.”

I give him that look again.

I smile.

I keep walking, walking

On that lane which is delusory,

Empty, except for kacchi kairi.

The trees tower over us

The greenery overpowering us, shadowing us

From the clouds.

The faint drizzle seething into our veins

The pungent raw smell

Overwhelming my memories from which I have abstained.

The lane desolate, leaves scattered about,

Kacchi kairi’s standing orthodoxly, waiting

For my retrieval into the fond memories

Buried deep, somewhere inside.

And in a trance I was transported eons back

Playing- carefree-

Callous- teasing-

Happy!

The sweet sour memory of eating that kacchi kairi,

The soft tiniest bite

Sour juices flowing

Eyes barely opening

And yet I would take bite after

Bite.

That sweet-sour memory of kacchi kairi.

“So what’s new in that? You still eat kacchi kairi.”

“I know”, I sigh!

Its different I want to cry.

But I give him that smile.

It’s just not the same kacchi kairi!

“So what, now you want that same raw mangoes that you ate

As a child? Don’t you think that’s rather impractical?”

The rage that gnaws at me is minutely conquered

By the insanity that he thinks I live in.

I don’t answer.

I just give him that look,

And he gives me that look

When he thinks that I want to make him understand

Without the words,

And he thinks I don’t know that he does understand,

He just enjoys his taunts more

But I know

And he knows.

And we draw each other together,

Closer.

And we walk that deserted lane,

Where there is nothing

The lane is empty,

Except for the kacchi kairi.

Kacchi kairi strewn across on both sides.

 

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The Disguised Innocence.

She was walking alone, dazed, on a torturous esplanade

Fighting battles that she didn’t know existed within,

Shaky, confused, confounded

Adrift amidst her own gloomy labyrinth.

 

Having abandoned her modest attire

The saree, the simplicity, long discarded,

Adorning herself in skirts, she became a voracious liar

Determining to no more forsake her heart unguarded.

 

With an extra layer of seething gory kohl

She strived to camouflage her inner sufferings,

The dark lips concealing the agony, the rage exalted at a knoll

While her innocence, her honesty;

Secretively yet commandingly tumbling.

 

She thought she’d garner and hoard her emotions

Pretending to be strong, while her insides shivered,

But her eyes failed her miserably deceiving all notions

Pulling her into an emotional whirlwind blizzard.

 

She was determined to make herself be loathed

Pining to remain abandoned, isolated and lone,

Yearning for no one to heal her soul

Hardly discerning that in a stance he’ll come

And all her aches will be enthroned.

 

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I Wanted To Heal You….!!

Yesterday, I posted this, and I felt exactly the words deep in my life, something that came out from inside my heart, but somehow I was not satisfied with the end. I hated my own poetry, my own work, my own thoughts, leaving my readers and myself without hope, and hence I came up with a little different conclusion today.

 

Do let me know which one of the endings did you like more?

 

I wanted; wanted

To take away all our pain,

To free you from your aches,

To envelope you in my embrace,

To make you forget all that can’t be erased.

 

I wanted; wanted

To kiss all your tears,

To chase away all your fears,

To taste all your wounds,

To chaperone you to the tombs.

 

I wanted; wanted

To cure you of your grief,

To surcease all your strife,

To heal your body, your soul,

To be your cure, an antidote.

 

I wanted; wanted

To give you all my happiness,

To bestow you only with blissfulness,

To free you of the enchains,

To liberate you, of all the restrains.

 

And in doing so,

I lost my exulted ecstasy,

My humorous joviality,

My peace, my calm,

My tranquility, the only charm.

 

And in doing so,

I reached someplace called inferno,

Burning, writhing, for how long I don’t know.

In healing you, I lost myself,

My body, my soul,

And there was left, no antidote.

 

 

But then someday, one day,

I rose to that Elysium,

Finessing away all your delirium,

Proliferating my poise,

Vanquishing the void,

Conquering the little forgotten calm,

Regaining all the lost charm.

And I liberated from your chains, with time,

The long lost, yet my lustrous smile.

 

 

 

 

I Wanted To Heal You….

 

I wanted; wanted

To take away all our pain,

To free you from your aches,

To envelope you in my embrace,

To make you forget all that can’t be erased.

 

I wanted; wanted

To kiss all your tears,

To chase away all your fears,

To taste all your wounds,

To chaperone you to the tombs.

 

I wanted; wanted

To cure you of your grief,

To surcease all your strife,

To heal your body, your soul,

To be your cure, an antidote.

 

I wanted; wanted

To give you all my happiness,

To bestow you only with blissfulness,

To free you of the enchains,

To liberate you, of all the restrains.

 

And in doing so,

I lost my exulted ecstasy,

My humorous joviality,

My peace, my calm,

My tranquility, the only charm.

 

And in doing so,

I reached someplace called inferno,

Burning, writhing, for how long I don’t know.

In healing you, I lost myself,

My body, my soul,

And there was left, no antidote.

*

Sometimes, I wonder though, if at all this is possible. You always wanted everything to fall in place for the other person, you always wanted peace and serenity for them, but in trying to do everything for them, can you really lose yourself? In doing something good for others can you really hurt yourself? Can you really torture and enchain yourself, so, so badly that you fear your presence? Can you really fall to some place so dark?

“They”

 

They say

I didn’t fight enough

They don’t know

How my body aches

How my body has

Lost the feeling to

Feel the pain.

 

They say

I didn’t raise my voice enough

They don’t know

How my throat itches

How my voice has

Completely lost the feeling to

Feel the voice.

 

They say

I did not repulse

I did not revolt

They say the fault

Is mine.

 

I can’t blame anyone

They say

That I was wrong

And they were right

They were strong

And I was weak.

 

They say

My demeanor should be composed

My anger should be subsumed

They say

It is not a big thing

It is just a passing fling.

 

They say

I am the devil

I am my own fall

They say

I am the ill

I am the cause.

 

They say

I didn’t fight enough

They say

I didn’t raise my voice enough

They don’t know

My lungs gave way

Screaming into void

They don’t know

That my armor

Rests in peace

Fighting for my life.

Yet they say

I didn’t revolt

Yet they say

I was wrong and they

Were strong

They don’t know

That my blood

Distanced itself from my heart

They don’t know

That my soul embittered

On my body.

 

These “they”

Who are they?

Who are they

To make me the evil

Who are they

To judge me

For being the devil?

 

They don’t know me

Let alone my soul

They can’t judge me

Unless they can tell me

That they have fought

More than me

That they have

Screamed

Longer than me.

 

They don’t know me

They don’t know my battle

And yet,

“They” say….

 

*

I still refrain to even believe in my rarest imaginations that I am anywhere near being a poet, despite all your comments on my previous posts. So, again I call this a vain attempt to try and write in as limited words as possible, and to express as far and as truthfully I can.

Re-visiting; Re-reading.

I read this following poem time and again, very often, so often that by now I have most of the lines by heart and yet I do not get enough of it.

How can I? Because every time I read this, it gives me, well I won’t say new insight but the very same old feelings that I live with. The feelings are always there, they are ever present, only they come out or I let them come out not too often. These are the feelings I live with, most women live with.

Though there are some days when they flow so rapidly that I fail to control them, or give them a direction and on those days, I read, I read anything, and everything, I read poems, novels, stories, plays. I read this poem all over again.

Today is one such day, and I will share this once again. Because, I am flowing, I am hurting, I am smiling, because it’s all mine, because I am I.

An Introduction. 

I don’t know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I am Indian, very brown, born inMalabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don’t write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don’t
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
WhenI asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank Pitifully.
Then … I wore a shirt and my
Brother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games.
Don’t play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans’ tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.

Kamala Das.