Wednesday, July 28, 2010

ചിത്രങ്ങള്‍ക്ക് കടപ്പാട്

തീന്മേശക്ക് ചുറ്റും
കുടുംബത്തിനോടോപ്പമാണ്
ഒരതിഥിയുടെ മൊബൈലില്‍
ആ MMS കണ്ടത്

രംഗം: ഒരുത്സവപറമ്പ്.
മദംപൊട്ടിയ കൊമ്പന്‍
അവന്റെ പാപ്പാനെ ഒരു
ചുള്ളികമ്പ് പോലെ ചുരുട്ടി,
ഒടിച്ചു, ചവിട്ടി കൊന്നിട്ടും,
കലി തീരാതെ കുത്തിയും
ഞെരിച്ചും പകയടക്കുന്നു.
കൊമ്പന്റെ തുമ്പിക്കയ്യില്‍
കൊടുംകാറ്റില്‍ ആലില.
ഉയിരിയിന്റെയും മരണത്തിന്റെയും
താഴ്‌വരയില്‍ നിന്നും പാപ്പാന്റെ
നിലവിളി ഉയര്‍ന്നു താണു.

ഉത്സവപ്പറമ്പ്
ശവപ്പറമ്പ് ആയതു
ഞൊടിയിടയിലാണ്

കലിയടങ്ങതെ കൊമ്പന്‍
പിന്നെ വീഴ്ത്തിയത്
മറ്റൊരു പിടിയാനയെ
കുത്തി മലര്‍ത്തിയിട്ടും
അടങ്ങാത്ത രോഷത്തില്‍
അവന്‍ ലോകത്തെ വെല്ലുവിളിച്ചു
അമ്പലത്തില്‍ കുടിയിരുത്തിയ
ഈശ്വരന്മാരെയും!

പാപ്പാന്റെ മരണവും
ആനയുടെ കലിയും,
സഹതാപതരംഗവും
തീന്മേശ വികാരങ്ങളാല്‍
വെന്തിളകി

മൊബൈല്‍ അവസാന രംഗത്തില്‍
pause ചെയ്തു കിടന്നു,
ക്യാമറമാന്റെ പേര് ക്ലിപ്പിന്റെ താഴെ
പ്രൌഡിയോടെ ചുവന്ന ലിപികളില്‍
നിറഞ്ഞു നിന്നു.

ചിത്രങ്ങള്‍ക്ക് കടപ്പാട്
വിശ്വംഭരന്‍, ഗുരുവായൂര്‍ !

Monday, July 26, 2010


I grew up in a place where shades of brown mattered and there were yawning chasms between them: from sepia to dark brown, we distinguished ourselves. In the school bus we measured our skin tones against each other’s knuckles holding the rails and the paler brown triumphed as she was the most accosted one. My mother told me that black is beauty ad nauseum, which I am sure, she herself did not believe and I bore the burden of having a deep brown skin, which I scrubbed and scrubbed till it bled.
That was how beauty was measured in my country, and the revolution of fairness creams occurred. Posters of dark women ‘miraculously turning  white’ happened all over the bill boards that hung over the vast expanse of fields which were leveled with truck loads of sand for concrete jungles, there were also beautiful, lissome, ‘fair girls’ wearing chunks of gold on their wedding day. Those dainty necks any burglar would be glad to slit.  (On my wedding day, I too remember being weighed down by my saree, gold and body, I do not know if I withstood the ordeal still.)
I travelled to the capital where the majority of sepia shades, unbeknownst to them, they too had a Khakhi blanket that  wrapped them and us together, creating a country of browns, thickened and pared down by shades. To escape from our self made traps, we rather not talk about our politics of colour, and follow the rule that silence is golden in such matters, or probably we like to pouch our skins with Botox or layers of anti-wrinkle creams to hold that silence to our skins without a wrinkle….

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Ransacking old shelves

Ransacking old shelves
uncovers secrets
That's how I found
playboy posters among
my uncle's ascetic books,
That's  how I found my
brother's love trapped
in lenses and envelopes
hidden in the battery port
of our old tape-recorder.
My blackmail beat him,
though he succumbed
no longer than two days.

Its the same way Brod
preserved Kafka, who
wished to seal his Pandora's
box with his death,
 in the manuscripts
shuffled from west to east
in the flat infested with cats,
death proved it cannot be
silent with secrets for long.


When I found my poetry
in me, not long ago, I knew
I was not good with secrets too.
I hemmed them to my words,
chiselled them with pain,
made an artefact of my
limited life; then when
I look back I hear:

Seek and thou shalt find,
learn from what you find!

Friends and mirrors

Recently, I saw in my friends
what I wanted to see,
some from my past
stabbed hard and left,
some in the present
saw in me a difficult poet,
probably, a child abused,
some in future may hold
a grudge as deadly
as hemlock in their tongue
that would sting and kill.


I was a lonely woman
I saw them in the mirror,
watching friends change
from past to present
to future as a charade
in front of me, there clung
pieces of my childhood,
youth and old age,
They remembered me
in their trial version,
In trial, for being me,
I watched them skim past
in their many forms
and my past,present
and future unfurled
as in celluloid
in the mirror I gazed

കിണര്‍

അവനൊരു വേഴാമ്പലായതു
മുതലാണ്
കിണറുകള്‍ അവന്റെ
ദൌര്‍ബല്യമായത്.
പിന്നെ മരുഭൂമിയില്‍
കിണറു കുഴിക്കലായി
അവന്റെ പണി.
ഒരിറ്റു വെള്ളത്തിന്‌ വേണ്ടി
മൈലുകളോളം
തുരങ്കമുണ്ടാക്കി,
മണ്ണിനടിയില്‍ നിന്നും
അവന്‍ കുഴിച്ചെടുത്തത്
വൈരം  വൈഡൂര്യം
പ്രാക്ത മ ണ്‍പാത്രങ്ങള്‍,
നദിയുടെ ഓര്‍മ്മ
പേറും വെള്ളാരം
കല്ലുകളുമാണ് .
അവന്‍ ധനികനായെങ്കിലും
വെള്ളം കണ്ടെത്തിയില്ല
ഒരിക്കലവന്‍ ശ്രോതസ്സിന്റെ
അരികിലെത്തിയെങ്കിലും
പ്രാണവായു കിട്ടാതെ
തിരികെ വരികയാണുണ്ടായത്.

മരുഭൂമിയിലെ ചില്ല്
കൊട്ടാരത്തിലിരുന്നവന്‍
മരീചിക തേടിയപ്പോള്‍
അവന്റെ നിര്‍ജ്ജീവമായ
മനസ്സിലൊരു
ചൂട് മണല്‍ കാറ്റ് വീശി
     

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

ഹെന്തു ചെയ്യാന്‍!

ഒരു കുമ്പസാരം:
ബുജികളെ ഭയന്നാണ്
ഞാനെന്റെ മാതൃഭാഷ
വെടിഞ്ഞത്

എന്റെ ' ഭീകര' മലയാളവും
'മൂഡ' മലയാളവും
'കാല്പനികതയും'  വായിച്ചു
ആത്മ വിരേചന
ചെയ്യും പോലെ,
ദുരന്തങ്ങളെഴുതിയ
ഈസ്ക്കിലസിന്റെ
ജീവിതാന്തം 
തലനാഴിഴയായി
വലിച്ചു കീറാം .

ഇന്നു അംഗലേയത്തില്‍
കടുവറുക്കുന്നത്
വീണ്ടും  ബുജികളെ
ഭയന്നാണ് ,
ഇരു തോണിയില്‍
കാലു വെച്ചാലോ
ഭയക്കേണ്ടത്
bilingual  ബുജികളെ

എന്റെ മാത്രം പിഴ !

ഈ മഴയ്ക്ക്‌
കടലിന്റെ മണമാണ്, കടലോ നിന്റെയുടലിന്റെ
ദാഹം പേറി
ആഴങ്ങളില്‍നിന്നാഴങ്ങളിലേക്ക്
ഊളയിടുന്നു

മരിയാനാ ട്രെഞ്ചുകളുടെ
ശൈത്യത്തില്‍, നിന്റെ ശരീര താപം
തേടിയ ഞാന്‍
മഴയുടെ കുളിരില്‍ ചൂടും,  സൂര്യകിരണത്തില്‍
നനവും തൊട്ടറിഞ്ഞു.

വൈരുദ്ധ്യങ്ങള്‍
പ്രണയിച്ചപ്പോള്‍
അതെന്നെന്നെക്കുമെന്നു
കരുതിയതെന്റെ പിഴ
എന്റെ മാത്രം പിഴ !

Monday, July 12, 2010

City's Seasons

marriages are like migrations to
cities, the unfamiliarity and
the task of getting used to them;
my weathered feathers in new city,
combating heat and cold
when the first summer climbed
the greens stems to dry its
succulence to twigs, a snap
of the finger,the tension
of the thumb and index finger,
it cracks no matter who wins.

winter, with its creeping
chill, froze every frill
at home, hardened knuckles
refused to move, seasoning life's
spices well, warm inside
covers, cold when the day broke,
room heaters sustained the dull
gray city clouds that let not a
speckle of sun ray filter to the ground,
portholes of windows let in the chill
of an unfamiliar blizzard that grew
colder as the day progressed

city crept on me by inches,
wrapped the chill, the
discourse of familiarity was not
hateful but comforting, it's roads
intersecting at cross-roads,
circles and traffic, grew on
in degrees till I learned its
maps clumsily like my veins, its
arterial alleys waited to be

venipunctured,
tread on,
explored,
trundled by
feet and dust,
their whispers
abrasions,
when heels click
and kiss
the ground


I learned how to love hate
the lost cities of the self,
nostrils echoed my
breath like tunnels,
my tongue tasted the forbidden
in the visceral depths of floating
hunger that worsened day by day,
my eyes were the alert sensors
to my mind's needs, the red lights
flashed to say I have to stop
and proceed at green,

I touched the muck of the city
and loved it too, there I saw a
piece of my sky mirrored
in its murky brown...

A piece of Sky and my Gray hair

Goo in childhood,acne in teens;
gray hair has become an obsession
in my middle age:religiously plucking
them out like a Jain nun, one by one,
not withstanding the pain and scowl,
I ask this philosophic question:
If I pluck them out, iron all
creases on my skin,
can I rewind my childhood
replay it like a tape
I like to listen again and again?

When I look up to see
the sky look down on
my history, a silent
witness to the days
and nights of my being;
passion, desire and tears,
cumulus took up shapes
my eyes wanted to see,
elephants, Christ in pain
and those phantasms printed
on the clouds by my fancy.

I looked at the mirror,
saw gray hair in the parting
standout in a mane of jet black
hair, like in the shapes of clouds
I saw only what I wanted to see.

Monday, July 05, 2010

her story in prose-verse

She was shown her place, that's what the world conspired for long , when she began to sing the song, whispering her dreams to seashells and the cowries she beaded to her hair, she was more than a mermaid in her unrealities, but tongueless in her world, where she could not speak about her love that overwhelmed her like the seas.

In the wild, she not only collected dried up fungi from the trees which she thought were cleft heels, she picked up dried leaves, brown, yellow and red, and stored them as ideas as how life would progress from succulence to dryness. That was then when she though and wrote about death in random, thinking that her youth's anti-hero lurks behind silently, endless musings on death gave her the political freedom to live, first as a woman and then with all counter identities strung together as a garland. when people urged her, she knew hat she has to live a politically wrong life to be politically right.

There she lived in verses, stringing them to her life again, in the virtual diaglossia of languages that met, copulated, where nights turned diagnosable as the clear light of day, and heaped in these epiphanies, she was tongue-tied with thoughts.Thoughts defeated , then triumphed her senses and all she could do was stare at the forbidden or laugh at her clumsy flight of the bumble bee, or lets say she ran her metaphors too much and too far and milked them dry!

She lives on the lone valley now, with dried up teats for muse, and in the sundry heat, she talks not of rain now, nor her aspirations, just that she knows the sweet-bitter pain of waiting, that stings and comforts in a way. Like they say in the Ecclesiastes, she dared to hope and dream, and she was the only hopeful atheist you could see, living lonely on a hill, with eyes entreating to Nature, hopeful of a future, love or just harboring the dreadful desire to live. Exclaiming: "Qu'est-ce qu'un beau jeu!"

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