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I Lost My Notebook

October 1, 2009 in Own-Poetry, Thoughts | 2 comments

I scattered some plans in the wind
Caught in a moment forgot
Then rain ate some lines on a paper
Words I never recalled

I lost a friend’s second name
In the untraceable directories of childhood

And a white frock with flowers
To rain and sun and running colors

A blotted paper boat
Floating down a trickle stream of rain
I lost

And a forgotten umbrella
In the bus
Honking and absent

I lost
A pen to a stranger
Lid intact
And a carton full of attic treasures
Letters and candy wraps

I found
A sheaf of papers
On irretrievable thoughts

A phone number
Dangling mysteriously
A report card and a stopped watch

I found a key to a door demolished
And wisdom for a problem from the past

I found a feeling and lost a word
When I could not
I had found loss.

Women Writers and the Female Body: An Analysis

August 11, 2009 in Analysis, Thoughts | 3 comments

I have always had a conflict about writing about my body. It has been a very personal space. Certainly, for someone who thinks and feels about everything under the sun, my body has been a ground for a lot of thought. I have been through a lot of physical pain and torture because of which I tend to detach myself from my bodily needs and look at it objectively. I am beginning to think about how I interact with my body. Also, being a woman, I am not very comfortable with discussing my body in a world of men, most of whom do not have very good intentions for a woman who can openly talk about her physicality.

I was attempting to translate a poem called “Female Author” by Sylvia Plath. When I encountered the word “pink-breasted”, I almost wanted to give up. Then I spent a moment thinking about the consequences of translating this word. Personally, I am more comfortable than most women, with my body. I have been laid bare in laboratories, testing centers, and an operation theater and I learned to understand the perceptions about the female body.

I have also come to understand that the female body is often used as a means of intimidating women into fear and submission. A lot of women are embarrassed of their proportions and spend all their time in trying to change the way they look. I don’t! In fact, I am the big woman who takes the second helping of a chocolate cake because I don’t care! I have one life and I care less about who is watching than about my own desires. Women are embarrassed about the parts of their own body and attempt to tell other women to cover them up without so much as understanding why they are afraid.

I am as comfortable with my breasts as my eyes or nose and I cannot be insecure about them forever. I would certainly like to protect my body from the invasive glances of perverts but I cannot live in constant fear of them and make my own body an inconvenience. While we studied Foucault, we studied about “internalization” and the “gaze”. Women tend to internalize the feeling of being gazed at by men and years of telling them to be ashamed of their own body has made them insecure and inhibited.

I have often seen men on the road who spit at me because they don’t approve of the way I look or dress. Then I begin to analyze the kind of person this ’spitter’ is. What is his life like? Perhaps he has no life. He must be a loser who has achieved very less in life. He is probably someone who has a complex about his own status. He is most probably not so well-dressed or well-groomed himself. Then, why do women react? Have our self-respect hit rock bottom that we have to react/respond to the man on the street who has no name or address? He is probably a street-cleaner who is there not because of a lack of choice but because he treated people with disrespect all his life. Perhaps, he is a college student who fails all his subjects because he has not begun to understand what learning is. Why should I react to a person who does not have the status to judge me, let alone value me?

I watched a documentary called “SheWrite” at college, and I loved it. It was about a few Tamil women poets who have started exploring the realm of the female body in their stories and poems. A whole lot of controversy has hit them and there are men opposing them everywhere. I have come to believe that a man can never look at the woman’s body the way a woman looks at herself. Then how can they judge what she has to say about herself? Isn’t it too intimate for him to comment about? What does he know?

This poem evokes so much beauty and a tiny chuckle from me because I can identify with it. I nod in understanding. This poem has been written by a woman and translated by a man. It evoked a whole lot of controversy from several Tamil lyricists (yes, the ones who write sleazy verse for movie songs) who wanted to take this to the level of Witch Burnings.

Breasts
by Kutti Revathi

Breasts are bubbles, rising
In wet marshlands
I wondrously watched — and guarded —
Their gradual swell and blooming
At the edges of my youth’s season
Saying nothing to anyone else,
They sing along
With me alone, always:
Of Love,
Rapture,
Heartbreak
To the nurseries of my turning seasons,
They never once failed or forgot
To bring arousal
During penance, they swell, as if straining
To break free; and in the fierce tug of lust,
They soar, recalling the ecstasy of music
From the crush of embrace, they distil
The essence of love; and in the shock
Of childbirth, milk from coursing blood
Like two teardrops from an unfulfilled love
That cannot ever be wiped away,
They well up, as if in grief, and spill over.

(Translated by N.Kalyan Raman)
Click for more poems by Kutti Revathi

I happened to read the article called “Landscapes of the Body” (The Hindu, Sunday, Dec 07, 2003) by C.S. Lakshmi a.k.a Ambai, one of the earliest forward-thinking Tamil writers. She has analyzed the politics of the female body while being cynical and caustic about the fact that men cannot understand the way women feel about their own bodies. I would not blame men. They have also been brought up to believe that the woman’s body is an object of arousal and requires to be covered at other times. Some men cannot appreciate the little moments of loss of self-restraint in a woman, when she is twirling her skirt in joy or lets herself go in laughter. Their first reaction is the need to control her. Many men imagine that a woman who is open about her sexuality is either trying to “titillate” or “seduce” or she needs to be controlled/fixed. I would not blame them because this attitude is not uncommon in older women in the family who have “internalized” the male idea of what is right or wrong for a woman. I have also noticed that men tend to be extremely private about their bodies. They do not want to explicitly express the sensitivities in their bodies because they are afraid of being taken into control. They observe their own physical needs as a weakness.

The body is something we live with day in and day out. While it seems perfectly sane to discuss “breast cancer” or “breastfeeding” without rousing a controversy, a woman is not allowed to talk about her breasts in other contexts. For a writer, it is completely natural to want to express every experience and how is one supposed to categorize these needs and inhibit oneself?

I also think the psychology behind such suppression and repression is the truth that rarefying the body makes it more mysterious and exploration-worthy. Perhaps this is why men try hard to preserve the secrecy about the female body to keep their own libidos working. It is only natural to lose interest in something that becomes commonplace. I cannot help but wonder why pornography and Savita Bhabhi are so welcome but a woman talking about her own body is not. The male psyche is still in denial, of course, but they have got their logic mixed up. It won’t be long before women realize the logical flaws and loopholes in the patriarchal belief systems and discard them.

The Mighty Fall

August 4, 2009 in Analysis, Art, History, Thoughts | 4 comments

I was looking at the January 2008 newsletter of “The School – KFI” and there was an article named “A Study of the Cholas – A Quick Report” by Akhila Seshadri (Teacher of History) on their visit to temples built by the Cholas, a dynasty of kings who ruled in Tamilnadu until the 13th century.

Darasuram, Gangaikondacholapuram, Brihadeeswarar were the three Chola monuments we visited. The man in whose times the temples were built – the so called creator of the huge temples, the architect of a marvellous kingdom, Rajaraja is now represented by a black stone in an unmarked and unnamed field in a village called, Udayalur. This stunned the students who had seen the Thanjavur temple. I think they became immensely thoughtful after this. “Is this it?” was one question on many lips.

This reminded me of the poem, Ozymandias by Shelley although this was the first time I could relate to it directly. My grandmother hails from Tanjore and I have lived in Trichy for over 13 years. I have visited the magnificent Brihadeeswara temple and awed over its splendor and this news was a little saddening.

Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

My father once told us about a man who had a paan shop at the bus stand in Trichy. He claimed to be the descendant of the Cholas. The Government had seized all of their property and they had been reduced to the state of menial workers to eke out a living.

In this context, I was also reminded of the Julius Caesar that Shakespeare wrought. He proclaims that he is as constant as the Northern Star only to be stabbed to death immediately afterward.

Cæser: I could be well mov’d if I were as you;
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me;
But I am constant as the northern star, (68)
Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.
The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks,
They are all fire and every one doth shine, (72)
But there’s but one in all doth hold his place:
So, in the world; ’tis furnish’d well with men,
And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive;
Yet in the number I do know but one (76)
That unassailable holds on his rank,
Unshak’d of motion: and that I am he…

Julius Cæsar by William Shakespeare (Act III. Scene I.)

Yes, this is it!

Second Chance

July 21, 2009 in For Tomorrow, Thoughts | 2 comments

I am drowned in dreams… somebody stop me.

Jabberwocky

June 8, 2009 in Thoughts, Umm | Leave a comment

I was trying to read Finnegan’s Wake and then I remembered Schizophasia.

The Stone Frog

July 13, 2008 in Thoughts | 8 comments

She could not talk. That was her problem. And she could talk. That was also her problem.

Where the mindless noisemakers thronged in big cities wagging their tongues, she was silent. She did not laugh to their predictable jokes. She laughed at times. But she was laughing at them and not at their quips. She laughed at their absurdity. Where the power mongers debated on falsities, she did not talk. Where there were controversies on religion, politics and science, she looked at her toe nails and imagined other things. She did not listen and she did not talk. She switched herself off where the manipulators sprinkled cautious gossip around. She would dream of purple horses and non-existent ideals. They called her many names. She was the “dumb”, “lazy”, “psycho” who did not talk. Who did not know what to talk about. Or they imagined she was too haughty.

In private chambers where mind met mind, she poured her heart out. She laid her thoughts bare, teddy bears, crazy theories, songs, philosophy and giggles – merging into one another but undoubtedly ringing of truth. They laughed at her now. “What a simpleton!”, they thought. Why will she not talk about quantum theory and integral calculus? Why does she forever talk about people, animals, flowers, stars, poems, songs and love?

And then a glass bottle fell down and broke. They all ran around bustling and screaming. Somebody stepped on the glass and bled all over the floor. Someone else mopped the blood. Someone slipped on the wet floor and scraped their knees. Someone else boiled some water to cleanse the wound. Someone scalded their fingers with boiling water. Someone else went to get some ointment. Thus they leaped around with their complicated lives, brewing one problem after another. In the middle of all this she just sat. Like a stone frog.

How they hated her nonchalance! Why was she not anxious and panicking? Why is she not crying? Why is she not breaking down? Why? Why? Why?

Spaces

May 12, 2008 in Own-Poetry, Questions, Thoughts | Leave a comment

When entwined like the ends of a barbed wire,
Where does my space end and yours begin?

In an unspoken word that the cigarette swallows,
Where does silence begin and smothering end?

The traffic offends on tarmac roads
Where does trust begin and anxiety end?

Midnight sweats like an unanswered panic
Where does empathy begin and selfishness end?

Loneliness strangles in the arms of strangers
Where does freedom begin and dependence end?

In the depths of pain, a craving beckons need
Where does growing up begin and childhood end?

Merciless coldness is dubbed as maturity
Where does anger end and limpness begin?

In the heart of thought, an instinct tempts
Where do necessities end and rules begin?

The past haunts endlessly staining the now
Where does begging end and choosing begin?

All gestures are misread and opinions formed
Where do masks end and realities begin?

All life is change and everything dies
Where do laws end and where does love begin?

FTW

March 10, 2008 in Expressions, For Tomorrow, History, Thoughts | 2 comments

“I don’t wanna send mixed signals to you. I do like you a lot, a whole lot, and you’re very precious. But, i don’t think i love you with the intensity that you do. I want you to know i’m not ready for anything in my life right now. Don’t want you misled. You’re free, as much as i’m. I’m sorry if i’ve hurt you. i’m sorry if i’ve hurt you, but my feelings for you are genuine, sincere. But i’m a weak person now, and from your perspective, a loser. But i need to collect myself, and i don’t know how long it takes, but until i do so, you’re not bound by anything. If you do find someone who deserves you more, i’ll call it my bad luck. I’m appreciative of how you’ve made me feel! And guilty of how i’ve made you feel. WE could be a thing of the future, but is it definite, and when it would happen, i don’t know.”

*ahem* (puts on gloves and mask) I have quite some shit to handle here.

Well, well, well! To begin with, what the fuck are you talking about?

A “hurt” me.

A me who loves you with an “intensity” that you cannot match.

A person who you are guilty of for the way I am feeling.

Ok! Get this into your head. Use some nails if you want some added strength in sticking this idea to your skull. It is not so easy to hurt me! You have no clue how I am feeling so stop making crappy shit out of nowhere. You don’t have the power to make me feel victimized, lost or hurt because you are a non-entity deep down inside me. Deep down, only I exist with my own dreams and plans. Such brutal honesty would hurt you… but face it! Nobody needs anybody else.

Now, about my intensity… yeah it has been a subject of intrigue and innumerable disturbances in all my relationships. I am INTENSE. Incredibly so. Most people cannot handle it. The weaker ones suffocate and die. The stronger ones learn to handle it and use it to their advantage. Some of my best friends are really, really strong people.

About misleading me, don’t even try! It is not possible. I might look like a sucker who follows you like a lost puppy. One fine morning, I will pack my bags and leave. I will take all your bloated self-esteem with me. And you will be bankrupt. Don’t drive me to that.

From my perspective you’re a loser and a weak person. Yes you are! And that thought is of little relevance to my life, except for some motivation to improve my own self and be different from what I perceive you or similar losers to be.

As for the rest of the blah blah about your indecisiveness, your inability to predict your own decisions and the time it will take to make those decisions, your incompetency in identifying your own strengths and what you’re ready for etc… is not my headache! You had an opportunity and you lost it. Blame yourself for it, if you want to. I am as free as I was on the first day I met you. Sorry, if I sounded dependent – I was not. Sorry if I sounded vulnerable – I am not.

My future is what I make of it. Unfortunately, your future would be what you did not make of it.

Good luck and good bye!

Now for the truth.

You have to work harder and improve your tactics in conning people. My bullshit detectors are on 99% of the time. There is very little I lost to you and because of you. Better luck next time.