Talisman
On Mother’s Day, I am gifted an amulet
a crystal scarab beetle, a glimmer of sun.
When I was a child, I knew which saplings
sprouted from dead dung beetles,
pulled them out to see the crumbling
carcass of the beetle dangling underneath,
its pirouetting path, long forgotten.
I twirled the plant to see if it fluttered
with the insect’s flightiness
held it close to my ear to hear the squeak
from its limp stalk and drooping leaves,
tiny roots dangling from the cold
womb of the dead beetle.
I will wear this amulet close
to my heart, to tip the scales
of Anubis at heaven’s doors.
The Frogs of Malabar
The newspaper says fungoid frogs
in Malabar have become extinct,
from the picture doleful eyes of a frog
deepen, straw yellow shine
on brown slopes of its body.
Years ago in Malabar,
in my grandfather’s nalukettu
fungoid frogs cruised red-oxide floors
in fleets of black and yellow taxies.
During languid afternoons, they ferried
us news from the courtyard latticed
with sunlight where nasty aunts conspired
over heaps of cashew nuts and laughter
as we made brooms from coconut fronds
by the cowshed with our mother,
the frogs feasting on insects swarming
from the slurry pit,waiting to hop forth
at sunset to shadowy grounds beyond.
The day we were asked to leave,
I remember
how grandfather paced the verandah
how some frogs peeped from behind
the pillars as we came out,
my widowed mother and three of us —
all of us young and bewildered.
I remember
the joy of finding a few in the bedding
how they shimmered in the dark
in the house by the fish market.
Primary
In the convent school, children circle noon
beneath the gazebo of the Malabar almond tree.
The drupe nestled in the crook
of the crushing stone spurts red juice,
stubborn strands of husk scrunching
in denial with each thud. In the shade,
high-schoolers debate on an early
marriage against the perils of 10th grade.
When more husks crunch and unpeel
I trade the seeds with two classmates
to listen to their pointed jokes
about pencil tips, rumoured books
travelling in empty tiffin carriers and more.
Afternoon starts with the excitement
of the lucky-dip where I win
a box of scented erasers,
through their transparent orange pink
squares I peer at the blackboard,
at human figures etched in binaries
in the Biology lesson.
Thereafter the almond tree coloured
through many seasons
in male and female flowers
in the same spike
leaving small heaps of Malabar almonds
by the smooth crushing stone
to bleed anatomies of life
near the primary block.
Distance Learning
The term is about to begin.
Through the windows, bits of sky trickle in
to weave into one sky beneath the ivory floor tiles,
clouds row past in its flat depths. I drift on it
looking for a nook to set up a schoolroom at home,
the term is about to begin.
I find a room opening out to tree tops,
hang lace curtains to flutter in the green breeze,
fix a white board to note key points before lessons,
surround the walls with shelves for books,
the term is about to begin.
But, in this schoolroom
there is no rustle of notebooks smiles frowns
no hands shooting up to answer questions
no eyes that shine like stars when tests are given out
no whispers into my ears of birthdays to be celebrated
no sullen faces because friends didn’t keep their promises
no sharing of chocolates or jokes
no blazers lunch boxes or resolves left behind to safeguard
no voices rising in booming murmur when the bell rings…
Nothing to stack on these shelves
in this schoolroom,
the term is about to begin.
I measure a little square on the table to keep my computer
for children to appear as pictures from their distant homes,
I keep a plant beside it and promise to water it every day,
the term is about to begin, to meet only in voices.
Anniversary Dinner
When they gather by the fire
I crush pods of hope into soup,
hope it might be enough
stir it in with a long-handled ladle
of grimace, wonder
if it will pass off as a smile.
With my glitter-polished nails
I carve a smiley
on the surface of the soup
but it dimples in unlike the cream-hearts
which clung to our lips
from the coffee mugs we shared
in the college canteen.
We don’t eat together now.
Something rises from the soup,
it’s a Barbie doll, gold brocade
dribbling fat and bits of meat.
I feel guilty.
I offer her the ladle to climb out
but she disappears into the soup.
The soup is runny still. I crumble
novelty in a bird’s nest into it,
bird memories melt in like balm…
Swiftlets shoot out of the soup
and become sparrows flying
into our fourth-year anatomy lab,
and the way you looked at me.
From the tureen, I hear your laughter.
The soup is ready.
Something rises with the laughter,
it’s the Barbie doll in a party dress
glazed with fat,
feathers arrayed in a tiny crown
on her coiffured head.
I stain my lips with pink
lipstick, before joining them
with her in tow.
Silk-rustle.
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