Invited Talk

It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon

when I preached to

a host of young future priests

about outer space

and inner regimes,

an apocalypse of withered spirits

which reading alone can save.

A few winced, others sat rigid,

some slept with open eyes,

while one took down every word

diligently in his notebook.

After awhile they led me up

a flight of stairs

to cut the ribbon

of a library, with creaking shelves,

updated with old books.

It smelt of ancient history, poetry,

psychology, theology...

crumbling leaves

whispering knowledge

in Latin, English and

mother tongue.

 As I walked back home

with the after taste

of the spot of tea and biscuits

the rector respectfully offered,

I mused on the ways

we all try to save the world.

Meeting Koya*

 

As I was inspecting

the timeworn stone slab,

he appeared before me asking

if I wanted to know more.

Surprised,

I nodded,

to this energetic antique man

who seemed older than

the ancient prayer house.

 

Every tooth lost

except two,

and a mole on the side

of his right brow -

a bulging third eye,

he took me around,

the guardian of the building,

in his navy blue Nike beret cap.

 

“Take a pic of the inscriptions,” he directed

“That way you can study it later.”

 

Amused by his insistence,

I took one.

 

“It was built by the Thachans…” he continued,

in a friendly yet knowledgeable tone

half muffled by his dialect and

his vacant mouth,

then explained how the dimensions

of the wooden square pillars

resembled those

in a temple

echoing

a time of harmony

with the Zamorins.

 

He told me about

three foot tall arches,

now plastered and sealed

where once,

visitors sat,

reading the holy book,

praying hands sliding

over blessed beads.

 

“This mosque was built 700 years ago,”

he said, “by the Yemeni trader,

on the land granted by the Zamorin.”

 

Those were times when the drum here,

announced the beginning of the feast

and the news reverberated

to the ends of the earth,

word of mouth,

one traveller to the next.

 

“Do take a wide angle pic,” he instructed,

“and make sure that you have captured the roof clearly.”

Glancing at my phone

he approved and

I chuckled.

  

Pointing to the square pond

with dark green water

and a few white ducks,

across the road,

he explained how the earth

from the locale strengthened

the swamp ground,

where the prayer house exists.

 

Then spoke of the special doors

ensuring entry or exit

that didn’t erase the prayers,

and the wood and tile roof,

which was once five tiered.

Made of palm fronds,

in the beginning;

it flew off  in a storm,

long long ago,

and was rebuilt.

Later it even survived the fire

set by the Portuguese

whom

the Hindus and Muslims

fought in union.

 

He urged me to clear my doubts,

if I had any,

and I asked

if I could see the interior.

To which he shook his head

side to side

and said, “sorry madam,

women are not allowed inside.

But, you can definitely

have a peek by standing

on the third step!”

 

“And don’t forget to take a pic of yours with the building

in the background!” he added,

flashing his indelible Kodak smile.

 

* Koya – a guide at Kuttichira Mishkal Mosque

Truth

“Why do we always

insist on ‘truth’?”

asked the philosopher.

“There exists

no ‘truth’”

declared the scientist.

“There are only approximations.”

“So that we don’t dance

to the tune of chaos.

So that we can all agree

to a single 'reality!’”

mused the poet.

The Last Poem You Ever Wrote

I miss

the person I am -
you were
when I was with you.

I miss

the endless reveries
and winged words
we soared (and thrived) on.

I miss

watching the universes
spin by, as I twirled
on your fingertips.

I miss

the sound of the rain dripping
across three oceans
in tune with your guitar.

I miss

the post cards
from every city you’ve been
thinking about me-you.

I miss

being your heartache
which bloomed into
the last poem
you ever wrote…

Meeting Roy*

 27.01.2023

She told me how

she found herself

in brokenness and borders;

of how the cacophony

of fear and hatred

blur at the seams

of life and death;

of how ideologies and purblind beliefs

shutter us from our fellow beings;

of how unlike capitalism

we can exist

in different languages

sometimes in parts

sometimes as whole;

of classes and castes

of religions and parties;

of how we can be

passive only till

the political turns personal;

of how important it is to fight

even when you are

so so sure

that you are losing!

*Arundhati Roy - author and political activist

Catechism

Chapter One

God Created the World

“Everything?”asked the child;

the Big Bang, suddenly,

vanished into

the Black Hole in my head.

Chapter Two

God Protects Us

“God gives us air to breathe, food to eat,

clothes to wear and houses for our shelter”

I read out to her

from her text book.

“Ma...

man is the one who makes a house

and not God, isn’t it?” asked the child.

Chapter Three

Christmas

“Mary is Jesus’ mother and Joseph his foster father,”

I reiterated the lines from her book.

“But why is Joseph his foster father?” asked the child

and I landed

at the Council of Nicaea

And then at Chalcedon

amidst Nestorius and Eutyches bewildered!

Seashells

The bell tolls for the Angelus,

as I lie rocking in a hammock,

thinking of a foetus in a womb.

My eyes trace the hovering eagles

and the grey- white clouds

in a hurry.

The rhythmic chant

of the fishermen echo,

while they pull the nets

laden with gasping fish;

gripping hands,

feet treading seashells

into wet sand,

moving to the tune of the waves,

a tight-rope dance of survival.

My feet now touches

the moist lush ground,

sprinkled

with a fresh breath of flowers.

Next to me, 

my daughter counts,

the pieces of sea shells

she picked on the beach

in the morning.

I asked her “How many?”

to which she replied “Twenty two.”

“I meant the whole ones...” I remarked,

discarding the chips

she had with her more.

“I like the broken ones too…” she said,

in a tone of utter seriousness

and asked me,

“Don’t you?”

My eyes met hers,

and the rhythmic chant

echoed again…