Today, I would like to make up for the anger of yesterday with a poem written by Divya Rajan. I cant stop reading it- enjoy.
They must’ve known my grandparents
I drive by narrow lanes called eda
in colloquial malayalam, the walls hoarded with large
posters of Mohanlal and some teenager heroine
(who won the National Award for Best Actress,
I’m told, for carrying on precariously well
as a mother of an eighteen year old, when
she herself had but known eighteen mango- textured
summers) with wisps of curls over elephantine
ears and a big, red bindi on her forehead. The car
rumbles over dead brown leaves, to be
composted; more leaves that’d borne
mid-life crises and just breathed last
beneath the tires and the smell of wet
earth rises to my nostrils. There’s
another smell that’s common in these
towns. The smell of unsmoked bidi leaves
caressed by nimble fingers of women, young
and old, in factories overloaded with
women, for they’re cheaper, more reliable
and don’t drink. All they do, is work
and smile and save money for their
daughters’ and sisters’ weddings to be
held under thatched, nameless roofs
with indistinct tharavad flavors. Their
smiles burst out, like pomegranates when
cut open. They must’ve known my grandparents.
Why else would they smile at me? My city
lips creak open like a two hundred year old
frozen fossil. A scarlet-less smile,
aching to be shed.
in colloquial malayalam, the walls hoarded with large
posters of Mohanlal and some teenager heroine
(who won the National Award for Best Actress,
I’m told, for carrying on precariously well
as a mother of an eighteen year old, when
she herself had but known eighteen mango- textured
summers) with wisps of curls over elephantine
ears and a big, red bindi on her forehead. The car
rumbles over dead brown leaves, to be
composted; more leaves that’d borne
mid-life crises and just breathed last
beneath the tires and the smell of wet
earth rises to my nostrils. There’s
another smell that’s common in these
towns. The smell of unsmoked bidi leaves
caressed by nimble fingers of women, young
and old, in factories overloaded with
women, for they’re cheaper, more reliable
and don’t drink. All they do, is work
and smile and save money for their
daughters’ and sisters’ weddings to be
held under thatched, nameless roofs
with indistinct tharavad flavors. Their
smiles burst out, like pomegranates when
cut open. They must’ve known my grandparents.
Why else would they smile at me? My city
lips creak open like a two hundred year old
frozen fossil. A scarlet-less smile,
aching to be shed.
***
Divya Rajan is a poet and artist based in the Chicago suburbs. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming inFoundling Review, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Friends, Lily Literary Review, The Times of India, Femina and other literary publications. Her artwork has been carried by a local gallery and she is Poetry Reviewer for Sotto Vocemagazine. She blogs at Ponderings of a Porcupine.
Divya Rajan is a poet and artist based in the Chicago suburbs. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming inFoundling Review, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Friends, Lily Literary Review, The Times of India, Femina and other literary publications. Her artwork has been carried by a local gallery and she is Poetry Reviewer for Sotto Vocemagazine. She blogs at Ponderings of a Porcupine.
Thanks so much for reading and sharing my poem, Alana!:-) Here's wishing you all the very best with your efforts at Drishti...
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