Poem in the Auto

As I sat in the open air rickshaw,
my hair,
an uncontrollable mess.

I struggled to tame the Medusa tenticles that fluttered with the rampaging breeze.

Caged in my world of self-occupancy,
boredom of static traffic - my eyes wander.
I looked out at the auto beside me,
I see a hand clutch another begging bowl hand,
pursuing the occupant for some coinage.

I knew I would be next in their relentless quest,
I gathered my strength,
stand my ground,
I had NO CHANGE TO SPARE.

They haunted my rickshaw now,
A retarded gimp, with his colleague in crime by his side.

Begging for money, pleading with his voice,
Calling me his 'Didi'.

I concentrated my gaze away from them,
Blankly staring at my handbag.
Temptation rid my soul as I looked up at that impish man.

His eyes were closed yet as I looked up,
He opened his innocent eyes.
My emotion caved in as my glance moved down.
Those eyes,
Those eyes rid with sadness,
hardship straining innocence,
His eyes plagued me.
My eyes welled with pity.
How dare he bare his soul to me with those eyes.

They passed me by,
but
my thoughts were erratic and sensitive.
Why do they plead so desperately for our loose change and sympathy?

They rid us with guilt.

The way to dusty death...

The town was silent with apprehension.
People sat in their cramped homes with bated breath,
A narrow path, empty, deserted, dusty.
Houses flanking the small path, encroaching, watching,
Little eyes peered out of every window.
Silence swept the anxious town like cool breeze.
Suddenly, from the horizon, a speck crawled up the path.
The quiet watchers clutched their hearts and held their breath,
A prayer was whispered in the quiet.
Veloomurugan picked himself up,
He swaggered like a drunkard,
His clothes hung shabbily on him,
His ‘lungi’ barely hanging on his thin waist
He started to run, or at least tried to.
He dropped the empty pistol,
A gasp was heard from the curtains of an open window.
Veloomurugan was running, his weak legs barely holding him up.
As Veloomururgan ran past the various homes,
Windows, doors, all stared at the dilapidated man,
Knowing the inevitable, knowing the sad truth to come.

A shadow, huge, foreboding, crept up the dusty path.
It was Appaswami. He survived; he fights on.
A cheer echoed over the terraces, “Appaswami lives”.
Murmurs of anxiety and hope swept through the awaiting town.
Appaswami, pistol in hand, walked with dignity.
He was hard, unmoving and had prepared for this moment.
Silence fell on the men.
Veloomurugan, scared, uncertain realized his death was inevitable on the dusty path.
Veloomurugan picked up a little dust and felt the warmth of the sand on his rough palms.

He was going to be one with the earth now,
He was on his way to a dusty death.
Appaswami, stood tall, his shadow fell over Veloomurugan,
Dark and cold.
Veloomurugan didn’t whimper,
He was going to meet his doom with utmost calm.
Appaswami took aim and shot...
It echoed, it rang through the ears of every observer,
Veloomururgan’s chest grew wet as he lay there,
The water seeping through his shirt as the pistol dripped.

An old man, hidden in the shadows came forward clapping.
“Congratulations Appaswami! I knew you could win this for our village,
for the children.
You have given this village some thing no one else has.
Congratulations on winning the ‘Intervillage Water-Squirting Pistol Competition’”.
As a round of applause rang through the village,
People strolled out of their homes; each casually patted him on the back,
In recognition of his triumph.
Veloomurugan got up and shook hands with Appaswami,
They briefly hugged and the defeated walked away quietly.

As Veloomurugan waked away, his mind was thoughtful.
Amma (an old widow) came and put a kind hand,
On the shoulder of the wounded soldier.
Veloomurugan turned to meet her kind, concerned eyes,
“Veloo, why don’t you come, take a wash, and have some Kanchimore”.
Veloo spoke, “No, Amma. I have met my dusty death and,
I want it to end this way”.
Amma pulling Veloo gently,
“Aayo, Kocha, You’re filthy, I’ll give you a nice-oo bath, okay”.

- Mariyam Thomas, 2004.

Poems of RV

My Subject is laundry, and the pity of laundry,
The poetry is in the washing.

Exposure: A tribute to The Laundry of Doomed Youth.

What are these clothes tainted,
Dye or sweat?
Bundles too thick for the dhobis extrication,
One titanic bundle did shrink his eyeballs tormented,
Wading sloughs of cloth did the dhobi set to wash,
Batter and splatter of flying soapsuds,
The cloth spilled out dye like a wound that bleeds a fresh,

Fragile pink garment,
Lost amid the dyed sea.
It plunges, guttering, choking, drowning,
Colours incomparable, the dhobi launders.
Out of the dryer, comes the gentle pink,
Ravished purple-yellow smeared.
In the bundle did it come.
Over silly pink shorts did Marianna fret.
She said, “I am a weary, a weary.
Oh, God! That I wish I were dead,
On those shorts much colour has bled
To see my dear pink so faded.

-Mariyam Thomas (dedicated to my pink shorts, which incurred severe damage by a psychopathic dhobi), 2002.