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The Brewing and other poems

The Brewing and other poems

Five poems that attempt to foreground the myriad regressive rituals that erase Malayali women’s resistances


The Poet’s Note: These five poems attempt to foreground the myriad regressive rituals that erase Malayali women’s resistances. The first poem, The Brewing, reimagines a traditional Malayali ceremony that ‘celebrates’ the onset of menstruation in girls during their teenage years. However, the ritual is also symbolic of the modesties that the menstruating girl should acculturate in order to fashion herself as the ‘ideal’ wife and mother. Through this poem, I attempt to emphasize and critique the androcentric filters that inform these rituals. The second poem, Nangeli and Rabbit Holes, speaks of the forgotten history of Nangeli — a woman who cut of her own breast to protest ‘upper caste’ men’s insistence that women belonging to ‘lower castes’ must not cover their breasts. The curriculum in Indian schools rarely speaks of the event while being careful to include ‘refined’ Eurocentric literary canons. This poem is a humble attempt to critique the textual erasure of South Indian women’s political resistances. The third poem, irreverently (yet deliberately) titled Whoring 101, is an attack on the practice of arranged marriages that prevail in Kerala and other South Indian states. I attempt to do this through a poetic sacrilege of this custom that has been hitherto celebrated as being the sacred, ‘arranged’ union of a man and woman. By juxtaposing an arranged South Indian marriage with forced sex work, I attempt to disturb revered assumptions about this custom using the same regressive lexicon deployed by patriarchal publics. My final poems, Skatole and Serpentine, give voice to the South Indian woman’s final disavowal of patriarchal familial bonds.



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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