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 the Machines

The ghosts call me late
most nights, rocking
the cradle of the landline

we never use. I never pick up
but I see their faces vaporize
in my icy breath,

their empty mouths asking
You put away all the leftovers? 
Do you know who we are?

I can see their mouths form it,
feel their curses touch my body
I mumble irritably

and try to solve their hungry
riddle, without magic:
pointing them to the fridge

_

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

Roman Tamil

My teacher, ST, wanted me to memorize this kural I had never heard before.

And I repeatedly kept messing up on the archaic word "aagula" until I used "like Caligula" as a mnemonic. It worked.

_

Not a Metaphor

I don't forget you
flying
astral, austere

I search until time
is up
over, easy

My prayer speaks
as breath
salient, silent

_________________
Despite a small wheeze, I spent yesterday singling Thyagaraja kritis and slapping talams with tenuously connected new friends (book club to E; E to Tamil classes with S; S a student of R's mom; A a colleague of R; and so on). It was lovely--something I didn't even know I needed. And Nu told me in a silent moment that I sang beautifully.
_

Babama and Baby NuNu

Recently, I did a meditation that asked me to remember the oldest person (Babama, my great grandmother) and the youngest person (Baby NuNu) I had loved. If they could have a conversation with each other, what would they learn? How would I introduce them? I was in tears then because they would never meet each other as Babama died before my babies were born.

But I was reminded that some things live on. Nu lost her screen privileges this week, and when I was telling Big A about why she had lost them, he reminded me of Babama's principle. Basically, if you enable people to cheat (by leaving valuables around, or being lax about people copying off you, etc.) you are responsible for the crime--not the unfortunates who are compelled by their circumstances to steal, copy, lie etc.

When I trace the timeline of this piece of advice through the generations and geographies it has traveled, it's basically a study of how love connects us.

Now for that difficult conversation with the 10-year-old.

_

Jasmine's blooming

There's still snow outside, but in here

it smells like the Madras Marina 

'cos the jasmine's a-bloomin'

_

Time to go

Last night, I dreamt that I was looking over grandmother's old house by the sea. I was talking to my aunt and Big A about how it would make sense to get it (buy it?). I think we had decided to go for it until I remembered that the water from the faucets used to stain everything grey and wondered if that still happened and were there loud trains in the backyard?

The night before that, I dreamt of huge temple festival crowds. And among them, I found my mother with her friends. They were in full temple-going mode--vibrant silk saris and gem-studded jewelry and... were taking turns standing on a grate. Mom was so embarrassed to see me, but managed to hug me tight and whisper that I shouldn't tell anyone.

Both dreams were dotted with apocalyptic climate change motifs--rising seas, shimmering heat, crop failures--I blame the eco-criticism-ecofeminism class.

Is This Land is Your Land? 

Environment and Culture in the Anthropocene 

ENG 180/WGS 280

_

When I retire I want to go on trips with my sister (like my mom)

Rameswaram and Kanyakumari

_

The Ladies Finger

Don't know how I first came across it, but I love this blogzine--irreverent, honest, charming, and pathbreaking. It seems to be written and produced in India, but it's a great read for anyone with transnational feminist sensibilities.

Trans-Local

Dad's big birthday today

We're just too far away.

But we get

an archana and a pattu

veshti for Ganesha.

And for ourselves,

lunch (with Mimosas).

Now we''re celebrating

(Even though

the birthday boy is teetotal.)

_

After I flew back from India…

All of NuNu's butterflies 

were ready to fly away…

_

Midday/Half a World Away

These names are written under my skin

Their faces are painted on every mirror.

_

Unexpectedly...

 The family portrait my mom so desired

turns out a bit Jindalesque?

_

A Third Coast

On the brine of memory
the ink of veins marks spots

It is a storm of forgetting;
at each sob, she jettisons

Parents as they were, embraces
in sorrow how they now are

sweeps it all into feeling
grabbing and flailing even so

_

Nostalgia and Kindness

It's true that every time I hear this song, it brings a lump to my throat.


Nu says, "That's like you, Mama. You left your mom and Dad too."

At silently thumps me on my shoulder. (Somewhat smirkily, the way he seems to do everything these days, but still kindly.)

Broods: Mother and Father

_

This is a morning

Painted with the colors of my childhood
a door swings, calls my childhood name
the stairs lift me as did mother and father
the breeze, their blessing calling me home

_

Schooled

I was just browsing Shakespeare's Sister on a break and literally had my life interpreted for me.

In an article about high-heels, Melissa McEwan explains that for fat women, heels (which have been criticized by some feminists as a form of self harm) may seem a necessary defense:

Fat women have all kinds of narratives about sloppiness, laziness, dirtiness to overcome. Sometimes heels are a crucial part of looking "put together" in a way that sufficiently convinces people that we care about ourselves, that manages to counteract pervasive cultural narratives that fat people don't care about ourselves… I get treated completely differently at a $20 hair salon if I'm dressed up or dressed down. Two totally different experiences. I get treated differently at the doctor's office, and at the emergency room. I can't go to the ER in sweatpants, because I'll get shittier treatment. In an emergency, I have to worry if I am dressed up enough to prove that I deserve respect and care.

All round horrible. Points I completely empathize with without having experienced them myself. (Or so I think.)

And then the part that changes the way I count my life. Melissa McEwan continues:
I am speaking to my own experience here, but many women with other marginalized bodies have the same experience. Women of color, trans* women, women with disabilities, and other marginalized classes of women may strongly relate to the idea of having to be "put together" in order to be treated as human beings.
That would totally explain why after years of dressing in jeans and homespun tunics and putting a lot of thought into looking like I didn't care how I looked in India, I've become--after years of living in the West--consumed by fashion. Because looking like a vagabond* is cute only if people know that you're playing and know you're not really one.

*(as the nuns at my private school may have said)

_

Weekend with Grandparents Portrait (2)

With Maama-Thatha

Horseshoe Park, Cleveland