daydreams

memories

saudade

alone

a reply to someone who hurt me in passing

Yes, I am a tamilian
Call me Madarasi if you would
I don't have a problem.
No, I don't speak hindi
but I'm as much an Indian
as you are
Even more Indian than that
middle-aged politician who raves
Satyameva Jeyate
every time he violates
the constitution.
Or those saffron-clad babas
who proclaim to save
Mother India.

Oh yes, I'm a tamilian
And I don't hate your tongue.
Why, I love the way
my stomach coordinates with my mouth
(for once)
as I voice out Ba and Bha
and know my Bindi from Bhindi
and Bhakra.
So next time we meet,
I will offer a Namaste
and wouldn't expect a Vanakkam
for a reply.

Yes, I'm a tamilian
whose hindi you can measure
with the counts of your fingers
But very much an Indian
Just like you,
your neighbour
and his.

Some Senryu

.

eczema-

i run into my ex

again

.

women’s day-

i find the toilet seat

down

.

(accepted for publication in 'Wild Voices: an anthology of small poems & art by women')

To Live

Do not offer me grief
like toffees
on a glossy plate
nor asphyxiate me with
joy, numbing
my senses
toddy-high

do not

do not
No, do not caress that
temptress-
the noose
my heart entertains
now and
then-
an anesthetic
still
ness
admonishing pain.

Throb-wanting,
dregs of life stick
ing
at wounds
alive
to pain

alone.

blood rush, and
some medicine-
morphine, maybe.

blue limbs merge
into
greenery of the
curtains

a passe.

a prick in the wrist,
and life jostles
back,
gushing, plodding,
throbbing within

and,

thin drops of hot
blood
dri
b
b
le
red and real

like tomato ketchup on
your wedding gown.
Not a dream, no,
not yet
I gasp in
and out
of
life.