Monday, November 12, 2018

History Lesson

She is sitting with her husband  on a narrow bench
perhaps, they borrowed it from a school
dressed in starched cotton like the mothers
in those days, her eyes stretched wide open
as butterfly wings before a flight
her right shoulder gingerly grazing his.
Her children hover above her
as chicks around their mother
battling for food,
standing straight
with no bend in the body
hair immersed in coconut oil
neatly parted to the right, or in the middle.

The two girls have worn frocks
that rest below the knees
with black socks pulled up
to camouflage the legs.
Boys dressed in shorts and shirts
have been buttoned up
till their Adam’s apple hurts.

All of them smile in unison
as if the person behind
the camera tempted
them with sweets.
Black and white portrait of a family
that came into being, forty years ago
one of the boys is missing
so is the father, the mother still wears
stiff clothes, her eyes flicker
like an old tube light
Second from the right, was my mother
who now looks like the
woman in the photograph.

Friday, November 9, 2018

Melpadom, Kuttanad,Kerala, 12th January 2016

On the gilded dome of another dawn, strange shapes
of different sizes are being made
sometimes it looks like an orange
being peeled, sometimes like tender mango skin
then it changes colours, like a chameleon
behind villas getting eaten up
by dust, a slow fire burns
in a shanty.

Riding on the lacy blue winds
birds return home, to a place
where eyes will be heavy with sleep
earthworms wriggle back into tiny holes
as coconut trees let their hair loose to dry.

The murky owls will take refuge
in the chimney of the house
before which I steal a glimpse
of shadows growing paler
of hens getting into their coop
and the servant scuttling into her
one room house
the sky will rub off the red vermilion
from her forehead
and will soon wear a black veil.

Sunday, October 7, 2018

Last Supper

In the name of the Father, Son and of the Holy Spirit
the Red Sea parted and enemies counted their footfalls
on the graves of our forefathers.
Since then, milk and honey haven't flowed
only bombs have made music
as we walk on egg shells.
We preserve the locks of hair our daughters left,
and remember our sons by their pictures
we waited for their burial, drunk by the unholy passion of pain
their tiny bodies we held, close to our chest, all night
to not let the maggots feed on them,
their graves do not know their names
as the apricot trees that gave them shade, have wilted
at the enemy's commands,
for a few pieces of silver, they have plotted against
our husbands, who will be nailed
to their crosses soon.


The full moon bleaches the blood
on the battlefields
as their cup runs over,
they dip their pens in it, everyday
and write deadlier decrees of death
while we fatten ourselves, innocent lambs,
to fall prey to a landmine or a bomb
Please do not betray us with a kiss of peace
that was promised to us at birth,
the sheep of our flock have been scattered
as our shepherd won't come to lead us
Death is our final Resurrection.

Thursday, September 27, 2018

27th September 2017, Marine Drive,Mumbai

This city never changes colors
unlike humans and chameleons,
the queen watches the sky pour ashes on her head
as the prostitutes teething pain behind their painted lips
offer themselves to the heat of hunger.
Dancing to the garish tunes of this concrete jungle
mountains rise from molehills
as I look for you like a helpless child
who's lost her way back home.

This morning I had my breakfast at Theobroma

as the cold coffee cut through my parched throat
I saw the smiles you lent me 
melt on the brown velvet cake
chewing vegetables sandwiched between frail breads
I ate fear
fear of a rendezvous someday over an English breakfast
my eyes riveting in circles
trying to thaw cold feet stuck in my shoes
circling dates on a calendar
skinning nail biting moments from dead carcasses of air.

It's a long lustrous night before the day spills gold

on the feet of trees
Here in my room coiled under a blanket
I wish you would blow gently over the clouds
that embower your city, sending rain to me
I've always loved walking in the rain.
Tomorrow these messengers of yours will wake me up
their winter melting on my palms
Don't know if this is how it would feel?
Your first touch.

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Daughter not in Law

In this month
and in December
five years ago,
I had to be stranded
in the land of Pambayar
the land of three rivers
that clings to paddy plantations
in a winding wisteria
My grandpas' land.

Daughters are sent
to an alien burial ground here
tied to a man
with a golden garland
like cattle roped on
positioned poles.

Grandma came from another country
where the earth was petrified of coughing clouds
my eldest cousin went to a land
where trees touch the sobbing sky
another went to a place
where the mollified mud
crashed and churned houses
youngest went to a state
with slanting roofs
that sleeps by eighteen hours
for heat retention,
my elder one would go to a city
melting with economic elegies
Ma came to the heart of India
Aunt went to the hills
where rubber is as precious as milk
every time I visit grandma's grave
the wind blows towards the west
as if she is asking me
with advisory authority
When will it be time for me to go?

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

The Weight of a Memory

1) everyone loves the arrival of 
new things. Like the sun hides
to let the stars appear, the moon
rests in the deep annals of the sky
a lone object. Scarred, colourless
but bright. 
2) winters melted on the palm of the earth, until it started to burn.
flowers sprouted from new born buds
but sooner, it will be a funeral pyre
that will burn petals of life,
everything will turn to dust.
3) stuck on the soles of my shoes
are the moments I counted back,
when I waited upon him, while he never came I stumbled,
evening walks lay stretched on a straight path. 
4) I thrust my pills into my mouth
I need one more to live through the night. It swallows pain, like the last hiccup that I gulped,
I look at the things I don't need
everything that is garishly coloured is a memory. 
A few weeks later I know what happened to me as I discarded the garbage bag
An episode of partial amnesia. that ate my headaches. 

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Pramila: Esther Victoria Abraham- The First woman to be crowned Miss India

“My husband asked me to choose between him and the theatre. And I chose the latter. After that he never came to the theatre. Never saw me either. That was it. I was pregnant then. There was no other meeting, no other conversation … that was the end of my family life …”


Esther was born in 1916 in Kolkata to Reuben Abraham, a businessman from Kolkata and Matilda Issac from Karachi. Her family was of the Baghdadi Jewish origins, that traces its routes to the Middle east and who settled primarily around the trade route ports around Indian ocean and the South Chinese sea.
She had three half siblings and six siblings from her parent’s own marriage.



Education and early life
Esther attended the Calcutta Girls high school but later shifted to St James which was a co-educational institution and had a reasonable fee structure which the family could afford due to its declining means. Esther learned that to be an all-rounder she had to to excel in both studies and sports and become better than the boys.
She was a hockey champion and had won many trophies in sports.
She had a penchant for drawing and on graduating from high school received an arts degree from Cambridge.
On completing her high school degree she went to become a kindergarten teacher at the Talmud Torah Boy’s school. Esther was pretty and the boys in her school would try and find all kinds of excuses to speak to their beautiful teacher. Despite having done a B Ed degree she didn’t want to teach and was drawn to the Hindi cinema.

From Esther to Pramila
Her family had keen interest in music and dance which attracted young Esther to cinema. Her entry into silent movies happened by a sheer stroke of luck.
In those days her first cousin Rose and her younger sister Sophie were a part of the Corinthian theatre.
Meanwhile she got married to a Marwari theatre personality and had a son Maurice Abraham. Her parents convinced her to annul the marriage and they brought up Maurice.
A chance visit to Bombay to visit her cousin Rose Ezra changed the course of her life. Director R S Chowdhari spotted her while she visited Rose who was acting in The Return of the Toofan Mail. The director thought that the tall and glamorous Esther would do greater justice to the role and she was signed after being put through a screen test.
The movie The Return of the Toofan Mail was never completed but this marked the beginning of Esther’s entry into Hindi cinema.
She stayed on in Bombay and started working with Irani’s Imperial company. In 1936, her first movie Bhikaran hit the theaters and her anglicized hindi was accepted and became a rage. After this movie she was given the screen name Pramila by director and producer Baburao Pendherkar.
She went on to act in movies like Ulti Ganga,Burra Nawab Sahib, Bijli,Shahzadi, Jhankar, Our Darling Daughter, Maha Maya among others that often saw her play a vamp and stunt star. She also became the first major woman film producer with 16 major films under her banner Silver Productions. Morarji Desai, the then Prime minister got her arrested for she was suspected to be a spy for as she often travelled to Pakistan. Later it was proved that her constant travels were aimed at promoting her films.



Filmography
  • Return of the Toofan Mail, directed by R.S. Chaudhary (1935)
  • Bhikaran, directed by P.K. Atharti (1935)
  • Mahamaya, directed by Gunjal (1936)
  • Hamari Betiya / Our Darling Daughters, directed by R.S. Chaudhary (1936)
  • Saria, directed by Shanti Dave (1936)
  • Mere Lai, directed by Gunjal (1937)
  • Mother India, directed by Gunjal (1938)
  • Bijlee, directed by Balwant Bhatt (1939)
  • Hukum Ka Ekka, directed by Shanti Dave (1939)
  • Jungle King, directed by Nari Ghadialli (1939)
  • Kahan Hai Manzil Ten, directed by S.M. Yussuf (1939)
  • Sardar, directed by Dwarka Khosla (1940)
  • Kanchan, directed by Leela Chitnis (1941)
  • Shahzaadi, directed by J.P. Advani (1941)
  • Basant, directed by Amiya Chakrabarty (1942)
  • Jhankar, directed by S. Khalil (1942)
  • Saheli, directed by S.M. Yussuf (1942)
  • Ulti Ganga, directed by K. Dhaiber (1942)
  • Bade Nawab Saheb, directed by B.D. Vedi (1944)
  • Naseeb, directed by B.D. Vedi (1945)
  • Devar, directed by S.M. Yussuf (1946)
  • Nehle Pe Dehla, directed by S.M. Yussuf (1946)
  • Sal Gira, directed by K.S. Dariani (1946)
  • Shalimar, directed by Roop K. Shorey (1946)
  • Doosri Shaadi, directed by Ram Dariani (1947)
  • Aap Beeti, directed by M. Kumar (1948)
  • Beqasoor, directed by K. Amamath (1950)
  • Hamari Beti, directed by Shobhna Samarth (1950)
  • Dhoon, directed by M. Kumar (1953)
  • Majboori / Choti Bahen, directed by Ram Dariani (1954)
  • Badal Aur Bijlee, directed by Maurice Abraham (1956)
  • Fighting Queen, directed by Nari Ghadiali (1956)
  • Jungle King, directed by Masud (1959)
  • Bahana, directed by M. Kumar (1960)
  • Murad, directed by Nari Ghadiali (1961)
  • Thaang, directed by Amol Palekar (2006)

Saturday, January 20, 2018

14th February 2016, Aurora hall, Calgary

From the winter window
melting with human heat
in a strange city brimming with nameless life
I watch two people ensconced wearing each other's bodies
 like warm cardigans, twining their fingers like knitting needles
It's the festival of love, as love can be seen
plastered on walls of restaurants,
malls and the community hall in pink
 sealing the deal in sales
 or doled as discounts.

While in this part of my weary world,
 these two speak to a civilization
Torn by bombs, fractured by barbed wires
My lonely eyes capture the postcard greeting they give to the world
On a moonless night lit by silent street lamps.
Sipping slowly from my favourite mug with a happy picture
He gave on one such Valentine's day

I wonder,
Why do photos save moments
that will be forgotten?
As tears trickle down my face
I realize that I now prefer my coffee salted
 as my tongue gets used to the taste of
 wet memories.

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