Sunday, December 28, 2014

Sex- A poem by Amit majmudar

There are some poems that make me burn up and take flight like a Chinese Lantern. They say what I always wanted to say, and I stay up stunned and resonating. Here is one of those. Enjoy!


The one book where we never lose our place

spreads its covers to a gooseflesh Braille.
We are bookmarks slipped into each other.
In that book, we read each night of a couple
who go without touching for hours on end;
then, the dishes put away, the toddler
powered down and set to charge for tomorrow,
they thumb a lock and make a greenhouse
where once there was a master bedroom.
Orchids push open the drawers. Honeybees
bother the reading lamp.
The carpet threads itself with grass
twitching higher in a sunset-sunrise time-lapse
as the house regresses to a forest,
the plumbing to brooks, the chandeliers to stars
and “mommy” and “daddy” to the first lovers ever
under a glazed glass dome the size of the sky,
no duty save sensation,
the scar from her Caesarian
his Tropic of Capricorn. At last the throbbing
vines that roped them flush to the bed
slink back into the box spring.
The greenhouse shatters into mist
to reveal a plaster ceiling. They pull apart,
fall open like the covers of a book,
their years together pressed, preserved,
petals they can place on their tongues

Monday, December 8, 2014

I Love Living in this Village!

As I drive around this village, I see how harsh living conditions are. It is visible everywhere- in the fodder grass drying on the trees (I know how much hard work is involved in cutting the grass for cows and then drying it for the winters), in the fields that are worked upon all year round (back breaking work with little return), in the ragged school kids, in the condition of clothes drying on clothes lines, in the mud houses barely holding together, and in the roads that are never more than stones and mud. Life here is hard and harsh.

But as I drive around, I feel my heart uplifting. I love living in this village. 

I love the grass drying on the trees. It, to me, is a sign of family values, for no one person can collect so much grass all by herself. Families toil together for months to collect this much grass. It also is a sign of love and care for their precious cows, gentle creatures, who give back as much as they take in.

I love the fields that change color based on what is being sown or harvested. It, to me, is a sign of give and take from the Earth, something I was so far removed from for years. I envy those who touch the Earth so closely and are touched by it. How very blessed they are. And how disconnected are the likes of us!

I love the ragged children. They have none of the goodies that city kids have- no vitamins, no tabs, no TV, no books, no play grounds, no cloying parents to oversee them. Nothing. Yet they have such light in their eyes. And they make me feel so special just because I stop to talk to them or teach them occasionally in school. They make me believe I could make a difference in their lives, and how rare and beautiful is that!

I love the worn out clothes that people wear. On days when I am wrapped in layers to beat the cold, I see young kids and old folks walking around in threadbare sweaters and chappals on their feet. That, to me, is a sign of such wholesome health, because you can survive here in that attire only if you are active all day and hardy as a bull.

I love the mud houses with their rooms in a row, slate roofs and huge aangans. These are the only type of dwelling that merge seamlessly with the mountains and rivers and trees around us. I have always believed that everything nature makes is beautiful and everything man-made is ugly. But mud houses prove me wrong. 

I love the unmade broken roads. It is because of them that we slow down and I can look around at these pretty sights in my village. It is them that remind me that we are nothing. Our tar sprayers and road rollers can do whatever they want, but come monsoon, roads will be washed off. We are insignificant against the elements that rule our world here. 

That is why I love living here in this village. It makes me at once insignificant and impactful. It makes me feel connected to the source of life.  It makes me see as I have never seen before.

And I can't stop looking.  

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Holes in the Soul

Love is like anger in many ways. It is self-righteous- it comes with a belief that "since I feel it, it must be right". Much like anger, it is self-fulfilling- every action, every emotion, just fuels it and proves it right. And much like anger, it hides other important facts- about yourself and about the other person.

But the power of relationships have little to do with "love" you feel for the other person, except at the very start. And when relationships sour, it is not because people change. It is, in fact, simply because people don't change.

The loving husband, who one day becomes abusive, is just being who he always was. The starry-eyed girlfriend, who now can't stop finding faults in the man she once adored, is just being who she always was. The once devoted lover, who now seems indifferent, is just the person she/he always was. The meanness, the lack of consideration, the indifference, the selfishness, the abuse- these don't spring up from nowhere. They were always there- in individuals who got together by falling in love.

The secret to a good relationship is within each of us. It is not a complex secret really, but a simple fact that you need two good people for a good relationship. Only two complete people can make a complete relationship. Empty people create empty relationships.

No lover can fill holes in the soul.