WOMANHOOD CHALLENGED

The weather is cold, and the night air stings,

All around the wind whistles and trees sing.

I shiver a little, unclothed, in a world uncaring:

My pathetic, wounded body is yours for staring.

I have no more wishes, the worst has happened:

I feel so alone, so morose and disheartened;

The world is wicked for I am invisible,

No longer a sister, no longer a daughter,

Just an object for a man's carnal pleasure.

Am I not a woman, another human being,

Or am I a mere piece of china without any feeling?

THE TALLOW CANDLE

My birth occurred in strange circumstances,
As I emerged from the womb of a bleating Ewe
And the Melting Pot's hearty warmth and radiance.
But my birth it seemed, was in vain, and I knew
Not whether my life had any purpose.

'Twas then that my life was filled with the glow
Of love, sparked in my being and my very soul
By one who makes me satisfied and whole,
And leaves me undoubting of the joyous world.

The love of the Tinderbox guides me well
In my solemn search for the spirit, in a cell,
Trapped in the longings of the world of matter
The mirrors of which constantly shatter
To reveal the murky truths of desire.

The darkened paths are now revealed,
By the power of love and joy received -
Love, the only medicine in the world.

AASAI MUGAM

I am an amateur poet, expressing my feelings, my emotions through my writing. But today, I give credit to the great Tamil poet Bharatiyar. Through his piece titled "Aasai Mugam", he tries to remember the face of his mother. Having lost a photograph of her, he wonders at his own forgetfulness. Bharatiyar remembers the tender love his mother showed him, and still wonders how he can forget the face of the woman who loved him so. "What is the use of the eyes that have forgotten the face of Lord Krishna?" he asks himself, berating his own mind that remembers nothing but her touch, her laughter, but not her face. There exists no bee that has forgotten the taste of honey, flowers that have forgotten the radiance of light and beans that have forgotten the sky in this world, and he berates his forgetful existence. I confess that I am moved by these verses, plain, simple and beautiful as they are and I pray that I do not forget the people that are most important to me in life.

Aasai mugam marandhu poache
Idhai yaaridam solvenadi thozhi
Naesam marakkavillai nenjam
Enil ninaivu mugam marakkalaamo?

Kannil theriyudhoru thoatram
Adil kannanazhagu muzhidillai
Nannu mugavadivu kaanil
Anda nalla malarch chirippai kaanom

Thaenai marandirukkum vandum
Olichirappai marandhuvitta poovam
Vaanai marandhurukkum payirum
Indha vaiyam muzhudumillai thoazhi

Kannan mugam maranduponaal
Inda kangalirundhu payanundo?
Vannap padamumillai kandaen
Ini vaazhum vazhiyennadi thoazhi

GASTRONOMICAL SEDUCTION

Kiss my lips, cuddle my face, caress my hair and fall away

Into the darkness, into the chasm, into the depths of my world,

And leave me holding in my hands, a piece to remember you by;

The seductress that you are, you leave me staring into emptiness

And yet you leave me satisfied, my sweet, creamy, apple pie.

THE TURTLE DOVES

The Turtle Doves - Happy 21st Anniversary

Two turtle doves resting side by side on the roost
Upon a tree, their nest covered by twenty-one leaves,
Nuzzle into each others neck cooing their love truest
From one to the other, while the gentle tree heaves
in the wind.

The breeze turns into a gale and the gale subsides,
And yet the love of the turtle doves in their heart resides;
Whether blown by the wind and separated by distance,
Or fettered by a cage, the obstacles offer mere pittance
to combat their bond.

The love of these turtle doves is twenty-one strong -
Bearing the quality of an oak that has aged long
Years, bearing the strain of nature and standing tall -
The love of these turtle doves is never to stall.

This humble poet carries on his pen, a prayer:
That the bond of the turtle doves remains as strong
forever.

THE FORCE

You are soft, meek and gentle, serene like a mountain tall;
And yet the surface belies not a torrential emotional fall
Lit by a rainbow in the millions of drops of water,
Cascading over a precipice into an abyss, over
Which run mighty bulls, stampeding through the terrain
Of your mind into others, only to return and charge again.
You are soft, meek and gentle, serene like a mountain tall;
And yet the surface belies not a torrential emotional fall.

THE RIVER

There is a river between us, the raging Ganges of emotion;
Her voice is loud and shrill and the whole world is in commotion;
She laughs at us while we're miles apart, mocking all the time
And all I can do is sit down and compose a rhyme.

EIGHT LITTLE CHILDREN

She only wishes that she can stop and smell the roses in her hand.
Speak up. Stop child labour. You can make a difference.

Eight little children carrying lamps that lit up a wedding

Are walking down the street, burden on their shoulders,

Smiling all the while, admiring the festivities, the dancing

Ignorant of the danger looming over their heads, the loose boulders.

Eight little children carrying lamps that lit up a wedding

Are walking down the street, burden on their shoulders,

Smiling all the while, shining their bright lights upon the dancers

Joy in their own lives the light they carry is never bringing.

Eight little children carrying lamps that lit up a wedding

Are walking down the street, burden on their shoulders;

A thought never crosses the dancers’ minds,towards these holders

Of the light that shines not in their's, but the lives of the people prancing.

Eight little children carrying lamps that lit up a wedding

Are walking down the street, burden on their shoulders –

And a humble poet follows, a defender of the law wondering

Why his mouth does not move in protest for these little lantern bearers?

Look my Good Lord, and thus like the lawyer are all the world’s men

Who are not humans, rather asses that bray and peacocks that boast but when

The time for action passes, we do nothing but perpetuate

The sorrow of darkness that these children are too ignorant to hate.

Fie upon the World for being an unjust being, and the actors for seeing

And yet perpetuating justice among every human being:

Justice that denies eight little childrenthe right to speak and say,

“Why do I carry this light upon my shoulder, tell me, I pray?”

The world is cold, wretched and cruel for these eight little children;

Their sorrow be ended, and slowly,gradually their burden

Be removed from their aching shoulders only by Death,

Who sitting upon his mighty black steed, withdraws the children’s breaths.

And yet Death be cruel as the rest of the world for he comes not soon;

He’s content in their sorrow, and unwilling to take them beyond the moon.

All the while the lawyer looks, for his look will alleviate the suffering;

But lo, the children continue to walk, the load of the lamps their shoulders bearing.

THE LETTER

This post is an article that I submitted as a former student of my school, CMR National Public School in Bangalore for the latest edition of their magazine.

________________________________________________________

Dear seventeen-year-old-me,

I am writing to you from my present, your future – I’m writing toyou from law school. Yes, I know for a fact that this was never the future youimagined for yourself. Believe me. I’ve been there, done that. When I was you,I’d imagined going to an engineering college along the coast of Karnataka or inGoa. You’re imagining passing out with flying colours and driving an Audi A8 –yes, a black Audi A8 with tinted windows and a spoiler – along the long,winding, mountainous autobahn in Germany. Seventeen-year-old-me, if you havethe same dreams that I did when I was you, let me advice to swallow them, orbetter yet, have a mental earthquake that rattles the foundations of yourdreams: let this earthquake cause the towering dreams of the autobahn and thatblack Audi to bite the dust. Trust me. It is good for you.

Now that we have established that you cannot even remotely thinkabout engineering colleges and black Audis and autobahns, let me tell you whatyou can think about. You can thinkabout law school, starting up your preparations for the grueling entrance exams(the smelly CLAT and the stinky AILET) and hear from the propreitors of thevarious coaching centres that you attend how these exams will change your life.Believe me, those exams will change your life.

The true life-changer at the end of the day, however, my dear me,will be CMR National Public School. This school will sense that you aredifferent and allow you to make the conscious effort that will prove that youare not just another brick in the wall. This school will never try to bend youto the social sanctions and norms, and instead will release you into the sky,giving you the wings which bore Dedalus out of his island prison. The schoolyou are in, my dear me, has one great asset and that is the faculty. All thegood that you will get in law school will ultimately have come from them, theirhard work and dedication. I would appreciate it, dear me, if you took thisopportunity to give the faculty of CMR NPS a hearty thanks.

I would like to give you a “Small Messagein Verse”, seventeen-year-old-me:

TheWorld is a cold, hard, cruel and wretched place

Wherethere is an eternal battle between the Devil and Divine Grace;

Youwill be pitted and be constantly claimed by one and then the other.

Attimes like these, look back upon your life and with humility find your mother,

Identifyyour father, embrace your brother and stand with folded hands before yourteacher

Foryour family gave you your life, and the teacher your knife

Withwhich you can cut and carve and make this World a much better place.

With those words I should like to conclude this rather long letterto you and acknowledge and appreciate from the future, my past that was myfamily and my school and my teachers. May God bless us all, and give us thestrength to surge on with life until the time is ripe for us to embark on thenext big adventure.

Lots of love

Balaji HarishIyer

THE BREW

I sit at the coffee shop, staring at you, observing you
From my seat by the window, open to let the breeze in.
I look into you wondering and dreaming a few
Dreams of indulging, for the love of God Merciful, in sin.

I look at you and wonder why I sit with you
In front of me and my heart opens out with joy,
And I dream dreams of sins that I have no clue why
Bring a smile upon my face, distant, far away, maybe coy.

As I place my lips on you, your odour awakens
My senses, rushes to my head, and lightens
My spirit. For a few minutes, my worries are lifted
And my soul has away from my body has drifted.

Your taste leaves my lips moist and body tingling;
Energised and calm I feel the world around me mingling
And merging into oneness and coming to a halt
For a moment I am free, I have no fault.

The bitterness in you is soothing, your black colour
Defines your beauty, your simplicity, your odour -
They awaken my senses and lighten my day,
And oh I wish I could be with you, I could stay!

However my dear, all good things come to an end,
Just as the river must join the sea around the last bend:
That is the way of the world, it has been a trend
And alas, my dear, even to us it must extend!

I must once more take your leave but never fear
My dear, for I am not gone forever -
I must venture and say this: good cup of coffee
You and I, we are friends forever together.

A SMALL MESSAGE IN VERSE

TheWorld is a cold, hard, cruel and wretched place

Wherethere is an eternal battle between the Devil and Divine Grace;

Youwill be pitted and be constantly claimed by one and then the other.

Attimes like these, look back upon your life and with humility find your mother,

Identifyyour father, embrace your brother and stand with folded hands before yourteacher

Foryour family gave you your life, and the teacher your knife

With which you can cut and carve and make this World a much better place.

THE MISTAKE OF LOVE

I was sitting alone at the corner table in the coffee shop on an empty Jaipur side-street with a newspaper in my hand; I looked up and I caught her staring. Quickly she dropped her eyes and involved herself in the contents of the mug in front of her. I smiled. The waiter bustled over to my table as I signalled to him, and a few minutes later, a mug of steaming cappuccino was in front of her. She looked up at me and I smiled, at which point she picked up her mug of fresh coffee and walked over to where I was sitting. We talked and I found to my amazement that she and I shared a lot more in common than that particular coffee shop. That was our first encounter. 

A year after that meeting in the coffee shop, we were dating - we went to the movies, restaurants, pizza joints, or simply sat at a park talking to each other, enjoying the intimacy of a quiet conversation. I remember the first time we made love. It was at my house - our bodies were hot, and the passion shook the cot. She moaned gently as I kissed her ear, flicking the lobe with my tongue. As I moved my mouth down to her neck, she giggled, tickled by the feeling of my breath on her neck. Slowly, carefully, I moved lower and lower to her breasts. I peeled the thin lace off to reveal the pert nipples of her small frame and then placed my tongue on one. She let out a soft moan that ended in a sigh as I busied myself. She clenched me tightly and worked her hands on my chest. I took in a shock of breath at the sharp pain from the pinch she gave my nipple. Simultaneously we worked each other’s upper bodies, our moans filling the room. Slowly, very slowly, I moved down on her and pulled the wet panties off her nether-region. I worked my finger into her while she gasped with pleasure; faster and faster I worked until her juices were a downpour on my hand. Afterward, we lay in the bed, in each others' arms, staring at the ceiling; I heard her snore gently as she fell asleep in my arms.

The second year of our relationship began with my proposal. Meera was shocked and happy. In the two years that we had known each other, she had given herself completely to me, as had I given myself to her.  I was born a Roman Catholic, but I did not practice my faith, and Meera was a Maliki Rajput. I had no family, but Meera’s orthodox Rajput family would never accept an alliance such as ours. It was a matter of pride and honour for a family-member to be married, and the marriage had to be with another Rajput. No one else was good enough. Meera and I were in love, and my proposal was a problem. Finally, I told her we could run away and get married; she agreed after much convincing.

I remember that night well. I parked my Swift 100 metres from her house, and walked up to the big wrought-iron gates of the bungalow. She was waiting for me with her bag. I pulled the bag from her hand, and hand in hand, we ran to the car. We got in and drove off. We were on the highway to Delhi when a truck marked 'MALIK QUARRIES' loomed up in front of us. The brakes of the Swift squealed on the tarmac, but the truck just hurtled towards us; before either of us knew it, there was an impact and our small hatchback was tossed into the air. I woke up three days later in the hospital, my best friend John in a chair next to my white-bed. I looked at him, his face was white. "Meera?" I croaked, and tears rolled down my cheeks as I watched John slowly shake his head.

I was born a Roman Catholic Christian, but I did not practice my faith for it banned homosexuality. She was a Maliki Rajput and her family was extremely orthodox; her grandfather, Dadasa, was an extremely traditional man; he was openly against inter-caste marriages and loathed homosexuality, and here, his own granddaughter was one of us. People like Meera and I were over-joyed when the Court “decriminalized” our relationships. We were free to love each other in the open. She said our marriage would never be accepted by her family. She wept inconsolably. I told her we had nothing to fear – we were free to love each other in the open, like anyone else; we did not have to love each other in the dark alleys or within the confines of our homes. Homosexuality is not a crime anymore. I discouraged her fears and pushed her to reveal to her family who she truly was. "Be proud of who you are," I told her, to which she gave me a worried look succeeded by her cursing of her God Krishn-ji for making her a homosexual. "Give up your God, if He does not want you to be who you are," I chastised her, and she wept inconsolably into my shoulder. I patted her on her head and kissed her, gently, softly and allowed her to drift into a tired sleep in my arms. The subject was avoided since, and when I proposed to her, she gave me that look. Realisation dawned on me as I lay there in the hospital bed: our different love had no place, and I could not understand - where were we, the Gray in between all the Light and Dark?