Five poems that attempt to foreground the myriad regressive rituals that erase Malayali women’s resistances
The Brewing
Malayali girls must be brewed when they bleed.
Old, brewed women could do the honours
Black pot, yellow fire, grey smoke
I remember stepping in — nude as a skinned lizard
My mother, her sister and her mother danced
with herbs and tea for the brewing.
The moustache — their reverend God
will be pleased today
As they brew into the nude girl
favoured flavours that the Moustache craved.
Bubbles sizzle around me,
They dance, they burst.
My skin recoils,
scalded persimmon, my skin
It is time.
The brewed women gather round
they drop the herbs and spices.
Earl-Grey flavoured modesty
Pepper for pleasing
Salt for control.
They didn’t notice then
it wasn’t brewing in
Scalded persimmon, my flesh
Was brewing blood out
Red in defiance
Menstrual in its rage
Chilli flaked toddy my skin
The red brewed out.
Unwitting, the brewed
Drank the brew
Unknowing, the brewed
turned red,
Lost the curve that bent their spine.
It has been a year since.
The Moustache fled last November.
Bleeding, angry, red women
Shaved him off an unbrewed man.
Nangeli and Rabbit Holes
History books hated Nangeli
Like Nangeli spat at history
Pages in blotted black found her crass
nude and bleeding, a breast missing
A lone breast sans cleavage, Nangeli.
Ugly cadavers, they say,
Can’t scent history pages
So, it was decided then.
Our history and fictions
Would be fragrant
And corset bound
We would be fed Alice and Rabbit Holes
Alice would find Hatter
And Hatter the Red Queen
And I would find Alice
But not cadavers sans cleavage.
Kind bearded scholars say
The Hatter was mad
And Nangeli madder.
Pithy analogies lost flame though
When jaw-locked women frothed at the mouth
Spat venom at pages
And water clogged histories.
History books overlooked perhaps
That the Hatter was mad
But Nangeli — rabid.
Whoring 101
Look at me, your pimp
As I teach you the strings of whoring.
Your sari first
No, not to discard
But to wrap tight
Bloodless, anaemic, dead, smiling
The best aphrodisiac-
a bandaged body
with a stretched out smile.
Your lips next
Untinted, dry, cracked, grey,
Iron lacked lustre
In a word 3 ‘natural’
Another word — ‘unmodern’.
Eyes, blackened
Kohl-ed or bruised
Tear drop shivering
on the last lash from the left
Tear-salted testosterone
Gets you paid extra
But forget not to smile
You love this, remember.
Dreams and lust
Plucked and tilled
His for the taking
Yours for the burial
And now your signature
Ball point blue
The column to the left
Legalised, sanctioned.
And there! You are ready!
My daughter, my pride.
Look at me your pimp, your mother
As your groom takes your hand,
You perfect whore.
Skatole
I excel at unbecoming
Unbecoming woman
Expletive tinged tongue
Un-ankleted irreverence
Unfazed through faecal filial curfews.
I need my numbered strikes
Like Skatole to Perfume
These breached violations
Are fixatives to my sanity.
Serpentine
The fictions I’m married to
take form post cigarette puffs
vapour, fleeting, absent.
Yesterday’s fictions
and rum brewed rants
crash and die
leaving tinted ether
in shades of mauve.
I’ll trace them later
with a beer pruned finger;
mauve tinted fictions, I’ve learnt
serve me better
than slithering bonds.
Pickled scorn and serpentine bonds
Unlike vaporous fictions
ferment and fester
in shades of breathless blue.
They stay stubborn, they stay-
as needles in a blistered wound.
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