be

it's a useful skill

to know how to just be

in this fast rushing world

it's a rare creature that can sit still

and just be

a skill we learn naturally

 in the village in summer 

when we wake at 530 for the hustle and bustle of tooth brushing using the toilet bathing having tea seeing breakfast is done a

the dining 

then the slow wait for the day to pass in heat

v2

The Idly Speaks to the 8-year-old 

Why do you cry when you see me

at your Appatha’s home?  

I sit here, an empty canvas, 

ready to soak in 

the sunshine of sambar

the verdant blaze of chutney

the blush of fish gravy

Yet, you blanch whiter than me

when you spy me sitting 

on the banana leaf

“Idly again!” you moan.

Too round, too soft,

To you, I am boring

But, you cannot just 

fringe my edges with light strokes,

so I stay pale-bordered, pristine 

You need to dab me boldly,

let the colours seep into me

Only then will you see

I am NEVER ‘idly again’

You just need to know

how to paint with me.

----

• I think the poem can be elongated to really explore the 8 year old’s reaction/response to having the idly placed in front of them. Right now, we cannot really see how vehemently the child chooses to reject and how it can be fleshed out vividly for the reader. The poem’s stanza could be a ping-pong between the idly lamenting yet celebrating how beautiful it is in contrast to the stanzas that show the child’s rejection. This could elevate the poem and allow the last two lines to really deliver the punch proper.

• With that said, the other comments are still significant and I feel will help polish this piece even further. There are some very beautiful wording/imagery associated with the idly and I believe it should stick that way. Consider the placement of words and lines as the precision can really affect the way things read/sound in the mind! Almost there!

v1

The Idly Speaks

To the 8-year old in her appatha’s* home

Why do you cry when you see me? 

I sit here, an empty canvas,

ready to soak in 

the sunshine of sambar

the fire of chutney

the blush of fish gravy

Yet you say I am

Boring. 

You moan – “Idly Again!”

You cannot just dab my edges

so I stay pristine, pale-bordered. 

You need to dunk me with ab-

andon, let the colours seep,

only then will you see

I am NEVER ‘idly again’.

You just need to know

how to paint with me

aaya

Dedication 

Aaya valliammai aachikku

pethi meena elthikolvathu

Ungallai ennatha naal illai

ungallai ennatha naal illai

ungal anbukku  samarpanam

intha siriya kavithai

pidichirukkannu sollunga?

------

My grandmother is like this tree

spreading her branches out and upwards, 

supporting life, lending shade.

She is sustenance.

Today I feel them –

Stop All The Clocks by Auden

Because I Could Not Stop for Death

by Emily Dickinson.

Life doesn't stop though, does it?

I wish to be drenched in rain now,

drenched in the rain that is my grandmother's love.

She was not a sensible grandmother.

No. She was a fun-loving

life-embracing grandmother.

She relished chocolate ice cream,

pepper chicken, chilli crab.

She loved to travel, and shop.

Her fried fish, so thin so crisp,

I can see it, and yearn to taste it

though I've been vegetarian 10 years now.

Her love extended like the rays of the sun.

She would make podi for me

buy thattai for my son,

order karivadagam for my husband.

She knew each of us and our favourites, 

her children's and their families,

her grandchildren's and their families.

The lines on her face a map of her journey:

As a child pampered till the age of 15,

her father sending her treasures from Singapore, 

earned from their properties 

along Market Street and in Burma;

A shy bride at 16,

full of hope for the future,

married to a man ruled by his family

and their unending greed for her wealth;

A new mother at 18,

tending to the extended family,

taking raised fists, cruel barbs in stride

as she bore baby after baby, nine in all;

A fiercely independent woman,

she left home at 40 with her children,

fearing for her life, the safety of her kids

pawning her jewellery bit by bit to get by;

Her love for her grandchildren

and great-grandchildren

was a diamond, pure, blinding.

All of us turned to her

to pray for us at every hour of need,

from a fear of a miscarriage 

to blessings for PSLE exams.

She had a direct line to God,

and we went through her,

our telephone exchange with Heaven.

She would arrange for a donation 

to Jesus Calls,

Tulabaram at Guruvayur temple,

break a coconut at Mupathamman temple,

and we'd feel reassured,

for what could go wrong 

when our dearest Aaya 

had prayed for us? 

She was our anchor

and now we are adrift. 

Still, I remind myself

her blood runs in me,

an unbroken thread

from her mother to my daughter,

five generations of first daughters.

I see her face in my mother's and daughter's.

I feel her strength in every tree,

her caress in the breeze.

and I know,

I am so loved.