NEW | Poetry | Andal Srivatsan

 

Artwork by Tachi Lloret*

Patang

 

The betel leaf vine ahead of the porch

hangs on the trellis like Ma’s dupatta.

My sister runs around with it, humming

a tune from an old flick. We go to the terrace,

he grins and points out that I walk like a girl.

I stand upright, mimic him as he kicks gravel

at the wall, doing what boys my age would do.

Today, we fly our patang. I hold it and walk backwards –

his face turns beautifully red with joy and when he yells

now, I let go and he makes a diamond frolic in the wind.

He looks like a painting; untethered, and unlike the

patang and I – moving the way we are told.

Paati’s home

 

Last night, my deceased grandmother called me on my phone

 

nee tirichy pakon eppo vara?

when are you coming towards Trichy?

 

therila. it depends on when I get offs.

 

naturally, I took the next train to her village,

crouched in first class,

crossed that familiar vista

 

nothing much had changed.

 

paint chipped off of the walls of her house,

broken down with disuse,

 

thatha’s wooden wicker chair still stood outside,

sooty.

 

the armrest would open up and pull up a footrest,

I called it magical as a child.

paati laughed; sound of rippling pearls,

fused with her wheezing.

 

inside the oonjal oscillated,

right ahead of the TV stand.

 

thatha and I used to fight over the remote,

almost always, tamil serials took over the evening.

 

outside, the tulasi madam was barren,

branches empty,

soil wearing a layer of white mould.

 

the house is the same

sans the clatter.

 

years ago,

she would paste spices on the ammikallu,

someone else slapped clothes on the pumice.

 

when she was tired, she’d pant,

put her hand on her hip, her podavai raised to her knees,

use the back of her hand to brush the strands of silver

hair on her face.

 

in her old bedroom, her many nine-yard

pattu sarees are neatly stacked in the cupboard,

 

I touch them, and they crumble into dust,

burst into the air, light up a little over my hair

 

her scent–

 

morning malipoo, vibuthi,

pervasive whiff of seekai podi,

ochre sandhanam 

 

follow me out

long after the doors to her home are locked.

* via wikimedia commons