Autophony

When the last recalcitrant Delhiite has choked on his firecrackers and blamed the farmers of Punjab; When the abused cow has looked on bemusedly at the Vasu Baras worshippers; When the Made-in-China lights have either electrocuted the middle child or died altogether; When the brothers are back home after hearing subtle dowry demands from their brothers-in-law; When the tacky gold jewelry of dubious caratage bought under Akshaya Tritiya has induced buyer's regret; When the unopened boxes of soan papdi have turned rancid and been given to sundry watchmen, postmen, maids and drivers; When the holy librandus have argued themselves sore over the environment; When the bizarre-most of kandeels have caused nervous desensitization; When the same kitschy fiber "gifting" has made its final round and cracked unusably; When the vegan has gotten off their high horse to sneak "just one" kaju katli; When the toes of both feet have joined the fingers of both hands in being burne...

  This question called why அனைத்திலும் மிகவும் எரிச்சலூட்டும் கேள்வி. Why is this happening to me? நான் ஏன் தவறு செய்தாலும் என் மீது தவறு இல்லை? Why could it not happen any other way? இந்த வலி, இந்த பதட்டம், இந்த முடிவில்லா துக்கத் தொடர் One never, truly never, has an answer that satisfies. அதைச் சரிசெய்கிறேன் - வேறொருவருக்கு திருப்தி இருக்கலாம். எனக்கு இல்லை. Even Buddha, I think, did not have an answer. அந்த முப்பீடகங்களில் என்ன எழுதப்பட்டிருந்தாலும். I am tempted to be jealous of those that believe in God. Or Karma. Or Kismet. அவர்கள் அவ்வளவு எளிதாக அதுதான் காரணம் என்று கூறுகிறார்கள். Does that actually answer their questions? அல்லது தன்னைத்தானே திருப்திப்படுத்திக் கொள்வது ஒரு சமரசமா? ஏன்? Why is this question alone, never answerable? இந்த அமைதியற்ற மனதிடம் சொல்ல வேண்டும். Do not look for an answer for there is none that is true. ஒருவேளை அதுதான் புத்தர் கண்டுபிடித்த ஷூன்யமாக இருக்கலாமோ? I don't know. தெரிய வேண்டாம்.

जेव्हा शेतकऱ्यांनी तुला शोधताना आत्महत्येचे विचार केले तेव्हा का नाही आलास? बालकृष्णाचे हाण्डी फोडणारे गोविन्दा चढले पडले हात पाय तुटले तेव्हा का नाही आलास? गणपती बाप्पा येउन गेले सागरात प्लास्टरचे तुकडे झाले तेव्हा का नाही आलास? अाता तुझ्याविना जगणे शिकले पाउस हा शब्दच विसरले मित्रा अाता कशाला आलास? Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

你好! 我很高兴认识你。 我叫蒋捷连。你叫什么名字？ 我是中国人民大学的学生。 我妈妈叫丁子霖,她很漂亮。 我爸爸叫蔣培坤,他很明智。 她们是老师,在北京大学工作。 我爱中国和我喜欢吃中国菜。 我喜欢看好莱坞电影。 我想去长城,西藏和台湾。 今天六月四日,一九八九年。 昨天 我的生日,我今年十七岁了。 我和我的朋友，我们都在木樨地。 是凌晨一点十分。 有在我的脑海子弹了。再见! Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

The subtle play of light on the tamhan blossoms: violet turns pink turns lavender; on a pre-monsoon June morning, a crow contemplates its nest overlooking white mounds of salt by the pans and the raptor –  perhaps a fishing eagle – a black speck starring the day sky. And then there are the gulmohar and amaltas with pods like ugly brown penises, their spring crowns thinking and last the welcome canopy of the rain-tree. I sigh. It could have been an idyll, a pastorale even, but for the  electricity pylons, the rows of false ashoka and the dour grey of a building under construction. I'm in a belching taxi, late to work again. (Published in Setu Bilingual Journal , August 2017 )

Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara Shall I tell the story of how you came to be Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara? When your dying king bid you blind his young brother You deceived him with goat's eyes, what vile treachery! Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara! You who crowned Krishnadevaraya emperor With all the Coromandel as your demesne Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara! The king's son was poisoned; he charged you for murder. He put out your eyes and granted you no mercy - Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara! The truth was discovered, you regained your honour He sought to atone and restore you to glory - Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara. Beware a kings' whims and all his behaviour: Let that be what we learn from this tragic story. Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara. Published in Indian Periodical, 16 July 2017

Yes, war is necessary. But let my wife not be widowed, Nor my children orphaned. Nor let my mother and father Spend life’s last lap looking At the photograph of me Saluting at my passing out parade Trying desperately to stifle a tear. War, however, is necessary. But my career is also necessary. That US visa, that VP designation And that Thailand… Well, whatever happens in Thailand. And that 5-crore sea facing flat. It’s necessary, war is necessary. I am aware that the men in uniform Fighting the blizzards of Siachen Or sudden fire on the Line of Control Or fearlessly facing militants Martyr themselves for the Nation, But I fulfill my responsibilities too And have never failed to offer Koti koti shraddhanjali On Facebook and Twitter. War, however, is necessary. But it is not in my fate that I, Clutching a mug of cold tea at 3 AM, Fight a jihad against sleep; nor, Wearing body armour (If I get any) Depart for a crusade against The searing heat of the ...

Pets are prone to it. As are grandchildren. And the little birdies and kittens You bring in from the cold. All you can do is rage - in impotent disbelief, And sorrow, and anger, and desire, and hope, And go through what they call the four Stages of grief, but what man was so heartless To coolly count while a woman smashed Her bangles on her wrists, fresh-widowed? But it’s a tendency we cannot avoid, And while we may clamour, in foolish lust For the hanging or shooting or electrocution Of someone we have been taught to fear; Our own papa or hubby or Sox or Puppy We were never taught. Oh yes, there it is In the Vedas and Quran and the Confucian texts And maybe we could use it for our own time, But for papa or hubby or Sox or Puppy We never could learn, never could be taught. All you get is vague notions that are inadequate, So inadequate, to fill that rising emptiness Called life hereafter. And yet we fill it and ‘move on’ till someone else expresses, unwantedly, T...

Rays erupt on a winter morning. As buds erupt on shankhapushpam Flowers, the clouds thunder among Silent birds. As lightning in search of earthing, His feet praying for nirvana, the wanderer thirsts. Much of what he’s Learned, must now be unlearnt anew, Alone in a noisy train with lonely men He rumbles wordless into the night mist. (Published in Whispers as part of the " Captivating Titles " activity, July 2016)

There is, I suppose, a gruesome fascination In watching blood spread across shaving foam: Crimson, then red, then pink And then a dull, gory grey Washed off in hot water and a scar to remember. There could be a different image, a wish even, Of blood oozing from a wrist slit with the razor, As it takes away the stasis of middle-classiyat Eyes glued to the sight, the heart beating excitedly, Till all sound stops and lights dim In that cockroached lodge room. No, it’s no romantic place to die. Much better to plunge into the raped Teesta – Virgin mountain stream now Pregnant with mud and moving zombie-like To her doom in the silt of the Brahmaputra. The train rings its corporate deadline. I have fifteen minutes to dress and pack: The Kanchan Kanya Express leaves at nine-thirty sharp. (Longlisted by the RaedLeafPoetry-India 2013  Awards )

Dear poet-husband, Do you know how to buy one hand of flowers, Or roll a round chapati? You who stand up for women Can you cut up love and affection And boil it up in the sambar Like I do for you every day? Well, don’t. Just plait our daughter’s hair And plait in a hand-length of jasmine And send her off to school. Else just make pongal in the morning And put it in a clean dabba before Your daughter is awake and clamours For her toothepaste, uniform. No. Well, alright. Can you bring rice to a boil, So its aroma makes the house blossom? Even simpler. Can you show happiness, day after day, While washing clothes and folding them, Sweeping and mopping the house, Washing dishes thick with congealed ghee And never, ever complain While your wife writes silly poems? No? Not even for a day? You can make the flowers bloom, And the spring come early. Just make a crying child smile. You make words dance and sing, Just put a child to sleep. You paint pictures with wor...

it is still too early to say what memories will crystallise around you for now it is the bedpan not emptied from last use and your room smells of ointments and pills and your damning of the whole world but once my tears have dried and the puja flowers withered perhaps you will freeze i will put in the black and white photos on a boat in a lake in a cheap hill station when you first let me down and the mundan of the first-born where your mother made such a fuss and that stupid photo from a middling age of the reception of some cousin of yours and yes the shaadi ka video and the cassette guiding our kid reciting nursery rhymes certainly all the unrecorded fights for you never earned enough and drank too much and never bought enough flowers and that never do well son you gave me who lamented loudly at the funeral and your sisters let us not talk about your sisters no I will not make up a box of memories because you know I would not myself be reduced to an...

I'll stick to reading children's books. I've made forays into adulthood: all it seem to have is the acrid smell of burning dreams. ...there are no fairies in the world of adults, though plenty of witches; no redemption, merely a grave; love is so full of conditions it doesn't seem like happily ever after. Puppies grow up you know, And teddy bears wear out. The books have no pictures - or they do: terrible word-pictures of the fallacy of human existence. I'll stick to children's books. Published in Whispers, July 2015

Railway toilets plastered with washing soda; The rasping of nylon streamers against Fly racquets; Chinese toys beating about Before the vendor quickly bundles up And flees; Jasmine garlands and Incense-stick Boxes sharing space with Severed goats' heads — their eyes staring glassily at you to match Your startled glance; the smell of fried flour and Potatoes, and of withering cabbage stalks; Taxi smoke, gasoline and soot; Sweat — anxious Sweat —Whiffing by on hurried steps and a Quickly muttered apology on pushing You out of the way; Mysore masala Dosas frying on a street griddle — all Beetroot and carrot and tomato flakes; A promise of naked women in USB drives, and hard-bodied nude males Promising fairer skin from giant billboards; Death of course, lurking everywhere, sometimes Peering from a bier; Suburban life-forms In their TV-equipped habitats not Peering out of lit windows; and I — I just go home, as I do everyday. (Published in  Setu Bilingual Journa...

Somewhere between the truth, And our world of comforting lies, Is the world we seek to live in, Half earth, half fantasy; Happiness is what we call it, Though a stagnating lack Of worry would do as well, Maybe it's a race we're running Against our own aging selves Chasing a childhood memory Always a step ahead of us: A visible phantasm, a mirage Concocted from our own imagined pasts With guilt conveniently buried In the shroud of forgetfulness And yet - there's always a yet - There is a listlessness, ennui, That we never got what we wanted And the regret, unmessianic, Of not knowing what that was Till the commas of life stop abruptly. Published in Whispers, April 2016 as Commas

Fear ye not the ravines, the jungles, the swamps for there be but the desperate, the hungry, the ignorant, a few may indulge in guns there, sharpen machetes but what proof are they to a few sacks of rice, a yard of cloth, a hovel of mud: quake not before them, quake not ever. But dread ye the young minds in the coffee shop, those that smoke leaning by the wall in the alley, filled are they with words and promise, with hopes and visions and the blind phantasmagoria of tomorrow's noon brightly lit; dread them ye, dread them with your soul. They brew poisons of not arsenic but ink, they fletch arrows of anger not curare; they stand in the parks and march on streets, they defile, they profane, they vituperate the dear, cherished gods we hold to our bosoms: fear them today, fear them tomorrow. On them then the tanks, the rifles, the gendarme's batons, for them the censor's knife, the inquisitor's iron lady, to them the syringe of cyanide, the canister ...

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

My face is pockmarked with breaking dreams, hope oozing away like yellow-red pus; the body haemorrhages desires to the ceaseless illness of survival. But the blood festers within, raging impassionedly, impotently until it bursts through, ebbs, clots and dries among feeding flies. Published in  Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

I look at the ceiling the blank, blank ceiling and the blemish-less, soulless angel white walls loneliness my paramour prostituting my fingers. Black, muscular bodies dripping with the sweat of construction bricks torsos barely contained in tattering loincloths did they feed each other? Or was it a place to make out consenting or seduce or gang-rape some starving servant-maid? There clearly is sweat in the congealed cement, spittle, semen perhaps, blood too, rich red blood, either fallen or murdered; concrete needs its sacrifice. It never is an anodyne, colourless, antiseptic suburban flat; listen to the walls, for there is always a conversation to be had. Published in  Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Yesternight I thought the stars came out, twinkling towards infinity, the moon was a sil'vry orb as she played hide-and-seek with the dream mists; I thought I met the Queen of England and the Prime Minister of Bangladesh on a helicopter over the Caribbean sharing a turqoise curacao in an electric-lighted reverie ; I thought I saw the sun rise, red, orange, yellow to the avian symphony of magpie-robins, mynahs and red-whiskered bulbuls; I thought I saw the hibiscus buds open and the frangipani leaves shed dew; But what I truly saw was the grime-laden red city buses with their overloaded, quarrelling commuters; What I truly saw was the trains stuck at bright red signals that wouldn't change to the green glow of progress; What I truly saw were my office lights in the false ceiling, the monotone of the air conditioner and the stern, upstanding computer screen; What I truly saw, was yesterday. (A bit of the Carpenters' 'Yesterday Once More...