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!)

Drama

Happened upon this graffito in the Hagedorn Woods yesterday. 

Random/terrifying/dramatic.

Have been feeling increased anxiety about Corona and Big A's proximity to it at work (they finally have masks and tests, and are beginning to see an uptick in cases). My mom has been lovely about sending me WhatsApp messages of support and prayer every day. Big A has been joking that if anything goes wrong he’s going to shame her on FB for “not doing it right.” 😂

Surprise!

It must be getting closer to my birthday! It means my parents have sent me Amazon gift cards, and since we no longer support Bezos with our own money, this gives me a chance to do some relatively guilt-free Amazon binging. I need waterproof hiking boots with deep treads, so away we go (online).

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.  

Did not see that coming...

Ellen Barry's  "The Jungle Prince of Delhi" in the NYT 
is the most intriguing, suspenseful true story I've read in a while.

A planetary reminder

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.

Gifts From Afar

So the flowers we sent my parents  were delivered, and they're just as lovely as they looked in the catalogue...





The cake? We're all still giggling at the writing on this:



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Golden Wedding Anniversary

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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.
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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.

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Jasmine's blooming

There's still snow outside, but in here

it smells like the Madras Marina 

'cos the jasmine's a-bloomin'

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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

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

Rameswaram and Kanyakumari

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