Death

Don't bury me in violent swirls
of dust and silence. Drag me
to that land- not of joy or love,
but the calm of conflict, as I
foray the slices of life, empty
and hard. Left behind by shadows
of the truce yesterday made
with tomorrow.

Define

Death is a poem written by the

strange tides of inevitability and

dragged to shores of randomness

in a bid to swallow life. Life is the

auto-tuned song of profoundness,

shrunken and shriveled into a

gazillion nerves, synaptic raptures,

captured by the mediocrity of

being human. Humanity tends to

glide over the obvious ignominy

of ignorance, huddled in a race along

the non-orientable surface that is

pitifully infinite. Infinity strikes the

tepid gong of silence, ushering a

solemn vow of the beyond, craving

nothing but an end to the insanity of

love. And love is...

We are.

Where do you come from, sister?

I come from the fields, tilling fallow
land; smell of green and brown. I come
from the factories of doom, clad in winds
of smoke and gloom. From homes never
mine, spilling my marrow for the thanks
ever elusive.

I come from yonder, where spilled the
blood of my kin, my daughters raped; men
quartered. Come from whence my dark skin;
shimmered in the evening sweat to gazes
unwanted. From where the swell of my breasts,
mound of my Venus, the arch of my back
surrendered to touches uninvited.

Where do you go to, sister?

To a better tomorrow. Something always
was promised. Sunshine in a million
kaleidoscopes, splintered across snowflakes
of happiness. To what is owed. What we
deserve! Some sisters are there, calling on
to us.

Why do you cry, dear sister?

Their faces... painted away. Lips sealed;
breasts quelled, the twirl of powerful hips
bound in thousand meshes of conformity.
That is not freedom. Freedom is not packed in
Gucci, Prada; not sold in streets of morality.
We are not them. They will not see us. Not see
us crying. Not through veiled blindness.

Why do you sigh, sister?

A clarion call. March on, sistren.
March with. Not slaves of circumstance;
neither martyrs of the day; nor the pangs of
virtuous angst. We are- the unwritten truth,
empresses of our own. We do not bow, do
not halt. We battle a million armies. The
heave of our breasts; rise of our areolas
and the strength of our thighs as sweat pours
unabashedly between our legs, wrapped around
your senses, as we march. That is us.
We are.

Marooned

No man- they say- is an island- moored

pitifully on these reckless shores. And yet,

my loneliness- glowering over- showering

thunders of longing- a pulsing star of dust

and pain.

Save me. Save me. Save me from this triumph

of emptiness- lured by the drunken leisure of

trapped nerves- coffin of numbness tests the

strength of claws-shrieking the vomit, so

painfully withheld.

Marooned. Shipwrecked and marooned. Sifting

through timeless sands- grate and cringe at

the electric friction- bivouac of effervescence,

cradled as life becomes the auteur- skillful

manipulations.  

Walk

Walk.

Trust your scampering feet.

Don’t run. They’ll know, they’ll know

you aren’t one of them. Scary movies

have it right. Sounds stir the darkness,

light abates the frenzy of the night.

Eyes dead, they glean the life

straying from your breath,

search your soul for the erratic

sprakle of humanity; something

they lost in the pyre of existence.

And you,

you’re still human. Watching the

tremors of madness shifting

in caustic winds; swirling carnage

trapped in the havoc of conviction.

They don’t.

And for that, they despise you.

Ravaging the torments of time,

they hunt you.

Keep walking.

Linger

Is it too early to embark on a reverie

of longing; dawn envelopes my being,

cradled in silence, bluesy warmth

straddles the grey, shoving, craning

to burst forth?

Does the light streaming in, bounce off

into the abyss of insignificance;

shimmers of sweat dance naked amidst

electrified hairs, truants of vainglory?

Educe fragments of lost memories,

etching transparent silhouettes and

screeches trapped in  perpetuity;

my longings trace the ache of the night.

Do I linger? Linger on and on? Should I

erupt in crashes of turbid desire, awake,

alive; pausing in undulant pulses,

the now reverberating with the next?

Fire

My insides scream, trapped in a halo

of overwhelming desire to burn, burn

burn and run; cry out as I float away

to that what I see beyond, yonder,

far from these childish cravings of a

life well lived and lessons learned

painfully; the twitches and shudders

of groans and moans lay still in the

rudders of insanity, claw fiercely against

these crimson strings, twanged amidst

 the pangs of flesh; subsiding tinges growing

shades of grey as everything wanes

away, deep, dark, further and further from

all I have ever known.  

Rust

It ached against the stillness of

her being. Intrusive, agitated;

crawling past deafening colours

splattered across her seams.

 It pushed.

Screams muffled in deadened spaces,

transients trapped; struggling to stay

afloat as swirling shimmers of

life engulfed her pallid breath.

Buoyant, her cognizance pulled

from the ebbing depths of past-

forgiven tragedies buried abyssal;

a flickering scintillation; writhing,

rupturing the pressure, breaking

through her darkness.

She smiled.

The Whore's Daughter

Red. She dreams red every night,

veiled moans and muffled screams drip

black and grey; dirty scars, fresh gashes.

A kiss on the forehead,

her disheveled mother, burdened by

sins of manhood. Rumpled notes earned

with stains of forsakenness, safe inside

the pencil box. Skimpy legs uncertain

on a path yet unknown, hurrying

before the first bell.

She knows.

Words  unkind, labels cruel.

The whore’s daughter,

teachers call her. Confusion unbridled

of late. Define whore, she says.

She has her mother, scores of aunts

and camaraderie of other skimpy legs,

laughter, sobs, fights and hugs;

A family.

Orange turns to night, the street

festive with colours of hope,

whispered secrets of lust and loathing, 

Diffuse

Red, red, red in the oranges
of claustrophobic totality,
she roams crazed. Tearing
apart those tears of rage,
hopes set under her hoods
of void.

The rot crawls up her veins,
fed in the luxury of screams
tight; a cold compress of
thawing claws deep within.

Unfurls and unfolding, those
swirls of early grey, preys of
devolving self.

I become her, armor of blood
and rage.

Of Rakhi-tied Knights and Forgiving Fathers

The biggest conundrum of modern consumerism is the appeal of the product. So it is only natural that advertisers come up with brilliant and often emotionally persuasive ads which make use of everything ranging from identity, belonging to relationships and the universal human connections. But then and again, pop up those particular advertisements which are intended to produce that profound lump in your throat. Let it be Cadbury’s with their melodramatic sweetness, Fastrack with their quirky liberal attitude or those insurance ads, where you end up thinking about prestige and privilege. Which is why, two recent TV commercials have gone vastly unnoticed. True, there are murmurs of dissent in the social media. But, somehow the larger picture of our consumerist ownership and protection of women goes unnoticed in this melee for maintaining humanity. 

The first commercial is something which almost everyone must have seen. The gruff cop who suddenly becomes a girl’s protector and sweet bhai when she ties rakhi on his wrist. Yes, we Indians do take the pledge to consider all Indians as our brothers and sisters and then violate this with metaphorical and literal incest. But, to think that tying rakhi is enough to ensure a total stranger ending up as somebody else’s protector… unlikely and a bit fishy. The idea of a woman needing a protector or that brothers have to be their sisters’ protectors, is in itself archaic and patriarchal. It fuels the norm where the woman is considered as a piece of property which the brothers she ties rakhi to, have to keep her from any harm till she can be handed over to the next owner. We have all seen women labeling their close guy friends as their brothers. This labeling sometimes comes in hordes, since simple friendship between a male and female is uncanny in our culture. And that is precisely what drives the emotion of kinship in such advertisements; the societal ideal where it itself acts as a collective blanket over a woman’s morality, body, agency and takes over her protection. And to what effect? In a society where the girl child is sometimes subjected to the groping hands of her brothers, fathers, uncles and cousins, does a simple rakhi or the ideal of protection entail real prevention of abuse?  A child of ten or twelve whose budding breasts groped by her older cousin – what of her? Imagine her confusion and isolation when she is told that he is her protector. If simple rakhis could prevent the mass emotional and physical assaults that women and girls face every day, when why is the heartland of rakhi tying girls also that of rapes, mutilations and untold stories of other horrors? It is always better to remember that a molester, rapist, murderer or someone who coerces sex selective abortion, might also be some woman’s brother or cousin or close friend. Hence, I can safely tell you, Idea ad makers, that the only section of the audience who would have positively responded to your commercial are those gullible girls who are protected and forbidden from exploring the world as it is and the conservative ‘family’ oriented group who hold on to the status quo. Your ad might just have prompted a girl to think that the world is all peachy and wonderful enough to not be strong or have her own agency. Why have it, when you are telling her that someone else will have it for her!

Coming to the second commercial, this one is in Malayalam and unsurprisingly a jeweller’s ad. It has Amitabh Bachchan and Manju Warrier, the Malayalee heart throb and surprisingly, the gold jewellery’s commercial has not one shot with gold in it. It is all about the usual Kalyan Jeweller’s tagline, ‘Trust- Isn’t it everything?’ And as usual, it has focused on the loving, caring father and the errant daughter scenario, where AB is heart broken when his darling daughter goes with a man of her own choosing and despite several encounters, his ire does not weaken. But one fateful night, she calls him up because she is in labour and needs to be taken to the hospital. Here, it is safely assumed that the husband is ‘unavailable’ and there is nobody(?) else to take her. And when the husband comes to the hospital, MW tells him softly that she had trust in AB that he would come. And apparently AB is now the doting father/grandfather. Apart from the fact that the melodrama is enough to fill five years of some mega serial and the whole ad is at best, mediocre; the sheer force with which it advocates the protection and dependency that a father ensures a daughter is appallingThis normative idealism of equating the father with everything safe and secure loses its sheen when it comes to reality. . If this was a real case, there is a substantial probability that the woman would have gone into labour in her house itself. Single mothers, families where women are the major bread winners, they all stand on an emerging platform of social reality, while the commercial discreetly caters to the imagination of the patriarchal society which is on a slowly eroding base. As if that was not enough, the commercial also implies a subtle negative to any grown woman wanting to choose her own partner. After all, it is the father who forgave her for her ‘crime’. In a society like Kerala, where women are gradually opting to get more educated, enjoy their careers and focus on self actualization, this commercial portrays a symptom of the reactionary orthodoxy. Though, it adheres to freedom of speech, one has to wonder if it is not regressive and antisocial to kindle such emotional impediments upon the authority which the State has guaranteed to every individual. 

After watching both these ads, full of sexist and oppressive agendas which do not directly signal an intellectual vigilance, masked in the flowery and mushy language of love, faith, trust, care and relations, one feels very cynical. Commercials are simultaneously for building awareness as well as for marketing. Shouldn’t they shed off and abandon such retrograde devolution and encourage progressive thinking? In the rush for profit making, have they forgotten the real ideals of humanity? 

I still have to get my own pepper spray, but I will because I would walk the streets a lot easier knowing that my safety lies with me rather than have faith and trust that a rakhi-tied knight will aid me chivalrously if need arises. As for Kalyan Jewellers, I sympathize with the daughters of the architects of the ad, who advocate that women who are able, not be capable of making their own decisions.

Puzzled

I try

touch that shadow
lurking misery
beyond memories,
buried in esoteric
valleys of pieces
scattered inane,
regardless of
what you were
to all and none.

They float by,
remindful of all
but you. Pieces,
ashes of a puzzle,
vainly frozen in
my arms.

What were you?

OH MY GOD!

I was born in a Hindu family, have followed Hindu traditions, still celebrate festivals even though am a non-believer now. Above all, I consider myself as someone who respects a person’s resolve to hang on to faith. It is between him/her and his/her god. So, when I came across the article ‘Don’t Like This Temple? Choose Another’ by Madhu Purnima Kishwar in The Hindu, I had my hopes up, thinking that this was about that choice. But turns out that only the headline was appetizing. What followed was a half baked meal which has caused me serious intellectual indigestion.

Madhu ji, I am one of your ‘self-proclaimed modern liberals’. I like art. All sorts of art. I like music, with an eclectic mix. There are tens of thousands like me who love everything Indian without feeling the need to subscribe to any religion. So forgive us when we do become annoyed at your case study. The first course which contributed to my indigestion was the object of the report. Rahul Easwar. Yes, we all have come across this face on TV. The young Neo-Hindu who has completely rewritten soft Hindutva and become a master at packaging the pills of passion for the Hindu youth of today to consume. I am sorry, but everything you wrote after you presented him as the central figure seems a bit fuzzy to me. Here you are, with an interesting topic. But you prefer to lead with someone whose views margin on extremism, who has no regard for personal liberty, who stands for everything fascistic that this nation is striving to get rid of, whose sense of humanitarianism is religion based. So forgive me when I say that you could have made the article appealing to lot more people had you left that reference out of it. 

But, as a writer, it is your discretion. So, be as it may, let us move on to the rest of the courses of this wonderful meal. My next problem is with your contention that us, the ‘modern day missionaries’ aren’t talking about oppression of women in other religions than Hinduism. One has to pause and wonder exactly in which world this article was written. Us ‘MDMs’ cut across all religions, castes and classes. We talk about every sort of injustice with regard to each and every parameter. The issue here is visibility. India being a Hindu majority nation has media which will bring Hinduism related oppression to the limelight more. If you happen to read and watch news and discussions from states like Kerala where the representation of Christians are more and participation in social progress is cross-sectional, you will find diverse topics. 

I do have to digress here and say that, yes; I view Hindu rituals as extremely oppressive and misogynistic. I can say that because I have Brahmin friends who are not allowed to touch food when they are on their period, because each and every ritual, including Karwa Chaudh, Thingal Vrtham, etc programmed so as to prevent women from escaping the patriarchal set up. Yes, there are women exclusive temples, but very few. In the majority and major temples, menstruation is considered unholy. In this age when stem cells can be harvested from menstrual blood, our ‘culture’ cannot move past viewing women as anything more than their wombs. In the case of Sabarimala, though I do agree that everyone has the right to worship their gods in all the diversity, criticizing that worship falls within the freedom of expression. What if I say that the entire premise of Sabarimala makes permissible one popular notion of our rape culture? That women are responsible for men and their sexuality, that the presence of fertile women can be tempting and tantalizing to men. What use is a god who can’t even be held accountable for his choice to remain celibate? Even in the case of THE Delhi gang-rape case, a version of this argument is being propagated. So however might the likes of R Easwar try to club the exclusion of women from Sabarimala as ‘diversity’ or anything else, one cannot deny the inherent misogyny present in the system. 

One does have to take exception to the reference of ‘Following in the footsteps of our British rulers, who despite their disdain for our gods and goddesses… But their disdain for those who treat them as objects of worship remains as ferocious as that of our colonial rulers. ‘When did Indian culture stop with religion? And when did religion stop with rituals? Hasn’t art always been a part of it? Are we supposed to infer that one has to adhere to Hindu religion to properly appreciate and understand art with Hindu themes? Can one not be a connoisseur of art and simultaneously have a disdain for organized religion? The references to ‘colonial rulers’ and ‘westernized elites’ are purposeful attempts at portraying the non-believing sections, those who criticize antiquated religious rituals as somehow not in touch with reality or the people. Somehow the undertone seems to suggest a deliberate malice at someone espousing the same diversity and tolerance of views which the writer wishes to see. Irony.

As to the writer’s dig at sugar free diet - why not? When this country is going through a phase of high morbidity and Central and State Govts giving emphasis to prevention of cardiovascular and lifestyle diseases, why not? Do you mean to say that religion should be static or that gods shouldn’t change their persona according to the need of times? How exactly is religion going to survive if it can’t socially adapt? 

The tourist centre allusion was extremely amusing. On one hand, the writer tends to forget that the architecture, art and history associated with temples do make compelling rewards to visit them. India has always banked on them to bring in more tourists. It has nothing to do with religion. Nor is it marketed as something religious. Again, the writer makes the mistake of suggesting that culture, faith and religion are synonymous. One does wonder though, nowhere in this article are tribals mentioned. They have their own rituals, many tribes don’t consider themselves Hindu. But there are likes of Rahul Easwar who try and bring them into the fold of Hinduism. Isn’t that impinging up on the diversity and freedom of worship and views? Yes, I know, it is very easy to forget them since they don’t form part of our ‘culture’. 

So, you can see why this article has caused me a minor irritation. It tries to speak about something profound. But in the end, it turns out to be extremely biased and bigoted. Hence, I stop this note of disagreement with a slightly curved smirk of an arrogant westernized elite non-believer.

Swetha Menon, her Child Birth and the Moral Mafia

India is a country which is vast, has diverse cultures and is ultimately a potpourri of everything good and bad. Despite the differences, there is one particular subject matter which unites the Indian men- the abject disregard for the women, their health and progress. India is amongst the worst countries when it comes all kinds of gender indices, including trafficking of women. But, within that boiling cauldron of neglect, there is a tiny state called Kerala which tops every gender index, with its seemingly high sensitivity towards gender parity. I have to stress on the word ‘seemingly’ because, Kerala tops in many other fields as well, including the number of obscene posts and cyber crime in India. It also hosts covert sexism and misogyny, starting with the utter inability of women to peacefully use public transportation without their posteriors being groped or brushed against, to slut-shaming, moral policing and dowry. 

It is in this scenario that the actress Swetha Menon let her birth of her daughter be filmed by film director Blessy. I am not going to analyze what their motivation might have been or what incentive might have been instrumental in Swetha Menon deciding that she will. However, it is extremely necessary that the intense ramifications of this act be thought of. From the looks of it, from one blogger overtly suggesting it is the same as porn, to others characterizing her as a prostitute who did it just for the money, SM is now the target for a lot of people’s repressed sense of morality.

I call this the Aishwarya Rai Syndrome, where the celebrity, especially the woman, is supposed to play the perfect Indian woman and be the perfect mother. In this Syndrome, the celebrity conforms to the majoritarian (read Hindu) belief system. On screen she is supposed entice the male folk but off screen she has to belong to one man who sets the trajectory of her actions. Anyone who deviates is bad. 

Here comes the question of agency and personal liberty. Swetha Menon obviously had no problem in letting someone else see what is only extremely natural and which she felt is something so emotionally beautiful that it shouldn’t be deemed to be something one has to be ashamed of. That is her personal choice. Whether or not to allow it to be shown to the world is also extremely personal.  Here, I must actually say kudos to SM’s husband as well. He rose above a typical Keralite man. He also did not hamper her resolve by crying, ‘my woman, hence the womb and vagina are by contract, mine’. Some have called it the new generation of ‘reality TV’. They must really spend more time watching Discovery Channel, NatGeo and The Animal Planet if they feel this is the first time child birth has been recorded alive. Do you think that it is any easier for any other mammal to push a progeny through the birth canal? We don’t see it as reality TV because they can’t scream or shout that they are in pain. 

For those of who think that sex does not take place outside the bedroom or away from porn sets and have been crying out for ‘pay her enough to let someone film her having sex’, the studies of Masters and Johnson or the recent MRI of humans during copulation would be a requisite to put their doubts to rest. There are people willing to have sex, not for money, but merely to abet the human curiosity surrounding it. But of course, it is hard to think outside the moral rigidity when you don’t even have enough courage or conviction to question the archaic notions of morality present in our educated society, which is constantly shifting its baseline consistent with the dynamics of the population. The problem is that the dynamics is changing pretty slowly and whoever creates a counter current in that flow is punished. Create enough counter currents and slowly the pattern of the flow changes.

Coming to the allegation that filming of SM’s labour is tantamount to pornography, one has to wonder in which universe the dictionary contains the meaning of pornography as ‘contractions of uterine muscles which result in expansion of the vaginal wall and the pushing out of a full grown foetus’. Pornography is the commercial manifestation of human sexuality, where the primary objective is the vicarious pleasure of the consumer. Unless the consumer has a sadistic fetish for blood, fecal matter, placenta and the tiny genitalia of the newborn, I fail to see how any sane person can equate this with overtly or covertly with pornography. Any person who goes to watch the movie ‘Kalimannu’ just for the sake of watching her give birth is just representing the repressed sexuality and constantly perverted psyche of the archetypal Malayalee man. Those who write and speak against her, assassinating her character and intentions, are those who pose to be progressive but whose conformity is ‘disgusted’ with the transgression of their moral scheme and has to sublimate their disgust. Similarly about SM being a ‘slut’, a ‘whore’ who sold the sanctity of childbirth to the highest bidder; here, the basic issue is that of the V-word. Keralites try to skip that word, hide everything connected to it. Vagina is bad. So, the issue here is that SM was ready to bare her most ‘sacred’ parts of the body to the people filming ‘it’ and the process (that too men) part of which is ultimately meant for the public. Adding to it is the objective of the act; a grey area for the public, which is not educational or purely commercial in its goal. SM’s intention was not simply professional and from the look of it, she also wanted to record her journey. She just had the good fortune of having a professional behind the camera.

In a nation where motherhood is celebrated culturally, socially and religiously while the only effort to make sure the Maternity Mortality Ratio goes down is done through political reforms, programmes and policies, it is understandable that such stigma exists when it comes to childbirth. The ‘down below’ is a sight only for the husband and the doctor. If so, then why are men still pacing about the hospital corridor and not in the labour room in our society? What are they so terrified of? There are cultures all over the world where the husband’s/partner’s presence is a necessity. It provides support and much needed encouragement, not to mention that it is a part of emotional bonding between the parents and the child. In our society, the father is clinically detached from the mother. As an educated society, isn’t it high time Malayalee men gave up the pacing and became pro-active when it came to child birth?  

I am grateful that Swetha Menon took this step. Like Khusboo commenting on and supporting pre-marital sex, through her act, SM broke a taboo. A taboo which begins from the day a girl gets her menarche – that one dareth not mention or discuss anything connected to her ‘sacred’ parts. This narrative is rife with hypocrisy since a woman is valued most in a patriarchal society for those parts. This has to be broken.  To break it, we need more and more women who come forward and break small, small barriers, whichever way they can. It is quite a personal journey, but personal is always political.   

Murder

I know it when the chill climbs

up my spine from within deep;

the murder she wrote begins

to play, its ache unfurling in

tangents of cruel inevitability.

Convulsions; resigned tremors

of solitude as my fingers creep

inside the crevice of my being,

a string of crimson stuck as i

pull them out; a reminder of

fertility coughed out by my walls.

I hardly mind this alienation

from my own; the massacre

accumulating in clots in my pants.

Hardly blink as drops lazy down

my thighs. They are mine.

As long as I’m blind to the murder

that my womb wrote in my pants.