Sitting Witness

Although my dad is more likely to read the sports section of a newspaper than pick up a book of poetry, his school experience of the Tamil poet Subramania Bharati would get him so fired up that he'd declaim "Thani oru manithanakku unavu illayenil intha jagaththinai azhithiduvom" frequently. So I'm no stranger to Bharati's radical outrage, the threat/aspiration to burn the whole world down if even one person is harmed. 

 I can mourn the horrific murders in the midst of this pandemic of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd and don't find myself distracted by other actions a grieving people may undertake. But in case anyone hears it, thinks it, or needs it--here is a lovely primer of "How to respond to 'riots never solve anything.'"

And please donate, if you can. Every one of us with a credit card in this family (At, Big A, I) have donated independently of each other this time.

https://payit2.com/fundraiser/98548… (@BlackVisionsMN)
https://secure.everyaction.com/zae4prEeKESHBy0MKXTIcQ2… (@reclaimtheblock)
https://unicornriot.ninja/donate/ (@UR_Ninja)
https://gofundme.com/f/georgefloyd

Each one reach one

 

(The lectures I got via FB messenger on how this was a government-instigated distraction were valid, as are the considerations that my parents are retired, in the danger zone age-wise, and genuine about their concern and support for healthcare workers. On we go!)

The Beauty

I am two years ten months old,

beloved first-born: am told my face 

is open as windows, my smiles gems

of happiness, when baby sister is born.

I remember being taken to visit

Amma and the wrinkly new baby 

too in the hospital, in the morning, right 

before I have to go to Mrs. Pinto's "school."

And I remember the chill of nerves

the clunky thump of suspense, feeling 

so sneaking clever when--patting her tenderly, 

I tell my parents: "Baby sister--Chelli Paapa--

is so, so beautiful; I don't want to go to school."

My ploy creeps on, it has lived many lives

it has floated past memory's borders, 

the recall slowly fading.

When I retell it now, on this whole other continent, 

my own kids chortle, roll their eyes, call me 

"playa." My face is a window, is a mirror, 

my face is a door that lets the lie in.

 But my parents have told this story for decades,
in a haze of earnestness, claimed 'blessings
--love or beauty or children, or the hazy
necessity of whatever comes next.  

Happy New Year / Hello from the Future!

Really. Doesn't "2020" sound like a completely random and flagrantly fake date in some sci-fi piece?

Secret non family

"My secret family wouldn't do this" was a weird sentence I used to say 6-7 years ago. It was mainly meant for laughs, and the kids knew it was a joke, but it used to make them AND BIG A a little bit sad when  said it anyway.  And then Big A told a story about how my secret family was a bunch of raccoons and the joke is very firmly on me these days.

They sent me this picture on the family group text while they were off visiting grandparents in Yellow Springs. Haha. SO funny.

I had planned to take a few days to myself while the rest of the fam was gone, and then our furnace died last week, so I had the perfect excuse not to go (had to keep the taps from freezing). My plans were to veg out with Whole Foods carry out and movies with girlfriends and a spa day. But I slipped in the garden and hurt my back and am sitting here hopped up on Advil and hot tea and and feeling a little bit sorry for myself.

The Waiting Game

Back when Big A and his sister were tiny and being pesky and their dad was single parenting and busy, they'd play a game that had one rule and one objective: the player who was silent longest won. I know about this game because Big A tried to institute this game with our kids--perhaps a decade ago-- and failed spectacularly.

I'm not surprised--At and Nu were in charge of the raita today as I juggled the various tasks toward egg-paratha rolls (Big A's Boss Day pick) and every step of the way was chatter, and jokes, and negotiation (if I measure the cumin you should get the salt, I washed the cucumbers so you should wash the tomatoes, and on and on and on and on). I read somewhere that families should support kids learning to advocate and negotiate for themselves, but yesterday... I was torn between chuckling and wanting to     shut     it     down. The smoke alarm going off (as it does every time we fry up more than 10 parathas didn't help).

Still waiting to hear about things at work... but now I have a tower of toffee tea cakes, well watered plants, fully wrapped Christmas presents (not pictured), and a dwindling supply of unrefrigerated fruit to keep me company.

Meanwhile in India...

The littlest cousin married her longtime love, and this photo is also full of people I love. 

I do declare

 

Nu (whose finger is in the picture) and I found this Vivek Velanki exhibit by accident. His grandmother, whose passport is the first exhibit is from Madras (like me!). 

I recommended it to the poco students at MSU.

Divali!

I mean I'd strung up the lights already, and Divali was the perfect time to turn them on. It felt like my own version of Kusama, was our trip just last year?

When Nu and I wished my parents in the morning, they seemed a bit sad for us that it would be just the two of us for the biggest holiday of the year (At is at college; Big A is at a conference). But I reminded them that Scout and Huck would be here too, and that seemed to help some.

As it turned out, there was a teensy Divali celebration at UU and then EM came over for dinner bearing sweets from Dusty's--it was a Michigan Divali!






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Color me nostalgic

These trees on the way home from class are quintessentially autumnal, but my south asian mind is bungeeing into spring and childhood, because it's the kind of green touched by yellows, pinks, and oranges, that we'd call  "tender mango leaf."









_

Tiny tomato

School starts this week, and this tiny tomato in my planter box is the culmination of some of the best moments of the summer: The outside; children's laughter, water-fights, reading; sunshine; Huckie content in the sun; Scout instigating me to chase him...

Hello school year!






_

Suddenly...

...or so it seems, everyone is the same height in group pics.

Grandpa R and Grandma C are on their way to OH, and we made them road trip snacks and filled them in on our summers.









_

A Rainy Day Visit

The cherries are ripening.

Nu checks to see if they're ready to share with Grandpa R.










_

His Two Parrots

My dad always calls my sister Rama Chilaka [Green Parrot] and me Pancha Varna Chilaka [Multicolored/Five-colored Parrot]. Chilaka is a used as a term of affection in Telugu, but because it's my dad, he made it so highly specific.
       
 I found these finger puppets (at Whole Foods of all places!) a few weeks ago and I saved them to wish my dad a happy father's day.

          I actually didn't get to talk to him for very long--he greeted, marveled, loved, kissed, and blessed me in about 15 seconds because the India-Pakistan cricket match was on 😂.

_

Golden Wedding Anniversary

_

January

I keep on feeling my thoughts

You too?

It's a knife--

in the shape of a puffy heart.

*

My child is grandmother's.

Her child,

my mother--

serenades every sunrise.

*

I sit here, the sun sets too

an earthling,

lost on earth, 

feeling the slide of inertia 

_

In the Old World

I am to reread their wrinkles
search their weeds for memories

even as ancestors' eyes are forced
to close, go masked, invisible.

It will make sense
until you ask about it.

*
They want to open my mind
wrest, twist it wide

then tip it like the overfilled point
of a plate, at the moment when

you're suddenly sated,
free of the desire for it.

*
I mime their scolding for I have no will,
and I am meek. Still they are forgotten

even so, every time--memory by memory
in a language my children will never speak

Aiyo--to think I meant at the start
to hold and shape love

as it pooled its fast and fluid
escape in my heart.

****

In Autumn

My hands are birds praying
in time to heart beat, my feet.

Fingers flying across the open
face of my phone, I am looking

for you in a midwestern town
where you have never lived

I am looking for my father
I am looking at my father

I am writing our name in pain
even as the pen runs dry, dies

-------------------------------------------------------



*This was supposed to be a picture of autumn tones in Bakersfield Park, but my phone died as I tried to take a picture. As best as I can tell, it died... from the cold? Apparently winter is coming for more than just tropical me.

తెలుగు

yes, of course, this is
merely the lisp of lips,
a slip, not apocalypse--
only the clumsy glamor

of Telugu scripting round
tripping slow, deliberate.
Daughter to my mother
and to mother's mother

whose words were fated
to immigrate too. I am
stuttering, I hear kinship
knocking, coming on in.

_

Resonance