2 PM verse

You know, the weight that sits on the vent port of

the cooker that pressure cooks your dal?

I lost mine.

Now its just the steam that vents out 

and I cant wait for it to hush and run out of its own steam.

===

he said to tell him all the truth

nothing but the truth

before I turn 82.

cose that’s when his great granda died

and wouldn’t I too?

82 is the death gauge of my seven year old.

==

he rolls over 

after they make love

and she rolls back

to the memoires that

made her love worthwhile.

===

I am a supermom, I tell him

to his eyes lit up in wow

at four, he begged for more and more 

of my encounter stories

my night kills and roof leaps

now at seven, he just listens

with sad acceptance and spiritless wows

how do superheroes heal their bruised hearts?

==

Biju Manzil

Dear Gita chechi,

These pictures that you sent reminded me of what we once were and what we left behind!

Look at this picture - the one where I am in a petticoat and ruffled hair, helping Gou with the pookalam. I must have been ten years old. You took this picture, I recall that moment. You smelled of America - I used to sneak into the room Amma had ready for you, just to breathe in the smell that was so American!!! You had a camera hanging from your neck and wore unstriking cotton trousers. Shot at Biju Manzil, our very first home that we rented in Aluva, overlooking the river Periyar. The home with the most beautiful garden ever, and remember the mango trees! Gochi and I used to climb and jump from the braches. And how the mangoes fell during the monsoon winds!!! The oonjal where Gochi and I took turns to push and swing many summer afternoons...

 

The home with the most spacious verandah, creaky wooden stairs and a kinnar/well with crystal clear water that imbibed a life long love of oil baths for me...

 

The home with a huge kitchen and attached patio, where I fought the most with Ammuma...that green wall next to the ammikallu (stone ginder) where Gou drew her "lady". It stayed on that wall all those years we lived there...

The home where we could hear the clang of the elephant chains from the kitchen long before the elephants passed our home. We ran from wherever we were to catch a glimpse of the gajaveeran. I think we even knew their names at one point! I  remember asking for the tail hair once but the mahout rudely refused...

 

The home where Dinu rang the padipura bell every day on his way to school and when Udayan Mammen came to open the door, he hid himself behind the sugar cane branches. We never found out who rang the bell and it remained a mystery until on my 12th grade autograph he came out clean...

The home where bats visited regularly at 7:45 every night...

The home where Ammuma fell on the bathroom and fractured her leg...

The home that I spent many afternoons and evenings in Appupans chaaru-kasera reading Amar chitra katha. I can close my eyes and still feel the breeze from the river..

 

The last home of ours where Appupan stayed with us...

I could go on and on...this home holds so much of our childhood, Gichi!

I heard that the house is long gone and a huge apartment stays there but who can erase the footprints we left on the sands of time?!

Feeling very nostalgic,

Love

Upsi

Ministry of my utmost unhappiness

Dear Ms. Roy,

 

Or is it Mrs. Roy now? But then you never believed in the institution of marriage, did you?

How could you, with namesake lovers and spineless cowards, the nights of anguish and tremor, at times languishing in lackadaisical whimsies but never fulfilled. The knight never came, did he? Ha. And you stuck to telling stores of knights.

I can relate.

 

Where was I now?

 

See, this is exactly my problem with your second novel, the one I waited twenty years. The one that Amazon didn’t disappoint and I couldn’t imagine returning. The one for which I couldn’t wait for my babies to fall asleep, to be transported to your world. The one I read with just four hours of sleep some nights. The one I skipped dinner for and made up with a glass of wine and dark chocolate.

 

Oh, how you disappointed me your loyal fan, Ms. Roy!!!

 

You bring in Anjum brilliantly, I feel her and imagine my own story of her when I finally put the book down for some shut-eye. The next second, you bring in Tilo. Wait! What! Where is Anjum! Who is Hobart and why are we talking about Kashmir and what happened to the graves? The beautiful graves with not so beautiful people in them. Where is Begum? No, stop, wait, Sadam Hussain? Did Tilo love Naga or was it Musa? I know you marched with Maoist insurgents, I know you turned your attention from fiction to real world people movement. I admire you for all that and much more. But can we take a moment to drink in this novel. You mixed so many things into these pages, I lost everything in the end. There was no hang over.

 

I still gave you time to recover and redeem yourself. Maryam Ipe’s monologues helped, Dr.Azad Bhartiya did not.

 

Maybe it is I who have to be blamed. Perhaps I did not grow up with Estha and Rahel. They must be in their late forties now, yea?

 

The ministry that was supposed to provide my sleepless night with the utmost happiness had me looking like a ragged doll with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and blank outs.

 

Love,

Upsi

 

PS: Kazhu Ishiguro Nobel Prize vaangi, kettayirunno? Ningal ingane thanne irruno. Allandu pinne!