1
The speeding mind
overtakes
past events
and races past the vehicle.
A journey of many years
for me and for the road.
The uniformed guide
standing on the first step
delves into the month of May
and rambles on about
artillery guns landmines
hand-grenades rifles
blood tears fear.
As it comes to a grinding halt,
he speaks of the time when
Tamil Eelam Welcomed You
here.
Face flushed by the harsh sun;
I shade it with a scarf.
The checkpost lies worn out.
Tamil lies under Sinhala
all along the way.
2
Once fortressed and policed,
the structures of the reign
at its zenith
have now turned to debris
under the roots of the arukam grass.
The verdant growth has crept over everything,
muffling the voices.
The hero stones have been bundled away
for interrogation.
Even the headless palm trees
which showed the way
are gone.
The fair Buddha
who has sprouted in the wilderness
adorns his hair
with the karthikai flower.
My unrelenting vengeance
buried in his silence
rages on in the flower’s flame.
3
houses blown to bits
in weird shapes
like an art fair.
in the middle of
the crushed vegetation,
wet footprints.
a young shoot peeps out
from the dead Tiger’s Claw Tree
on which clothes hang to dry.
the people have learnt
to pose for hours
clutching with ease
the barbed wire
without getting pricked.
in every nook and corner
of the razed city
fags of
banks with big money
reach out to the skies.
4
To the land that was done with triumphs and setbacks
comes the ancient wind,
drained now of its hues.
It speaks a new language now.
The flag it curls itself around is also new.
As we move along
wheels kicking up the dirt,
the wind that blows
in one tight embrace
breaks the walking stick
of the old man.
5
The swords of the victors and
the eyes of the vanquished
have been buried.
Politics
disintegrated in
blood and booze.
ln the land lost beyond dreams
food, repose and work
are all back to normal, they say.
Yet,
when I say
that Eelam is where I was born,
they growl more than ever.
KURUKSHETRA
The sea tossed about by the big waves
was now weary.
In that hour,
when the cranes were busy catching fish,
the war ended.
For the sacrifice
to begin the war
Aravaan was the marked one.
English speaking, yet a Tamil.
Even a moment’s delay, and
a war would have not taken place.
After Aravaan’s life ended
in the swimming pool,
the commander of the Pandava army
assumed charge.
The lame Sakuni was slain,
who spent his time playing dice.
An auspicious day was fixed.
In the battleground
where Pandavas and Kauravas milled around,
the world’s great kings too joined forces.
Artillery
Landmines
Missiles.
Karna, who narrowly escaped death,
gave vent to his anger.
War War War
For eighteen months.
With the skies and the earth and the waters and the wind
chasing them,
the people were trapped
in the emperor’s fort.
Victory upon victory!
As the ancestors,
fasting while relaxing
on cotton beds,
blew the conch of triumph,
five people, men women both,
were crowned
in the Kaurava court.
Karna and his army
languished in prison.
Krishna, reborn as Buddha,
quit the scene as a demon.
Gobbling up the remains of
the chopped hands and
the buried lives left over,
the Gods, who listened to his Gita,
have begun to raid the villages.
CELEBRATING REMEMBRANCE
There was a nation once
where lived a race.
In remembrance of them.
these celebrations.
flowers
with poems, essays and fables,
gatherings
with ministers and actresses,
symposiums, mega-conferences are all organized.
women, intellectuals are specially taken care of.
the web links have begun to bloom
internet pages have begun to scroll
photos, speeches,
videos made by people who visited
rousing songs and
music CDs in abundance.
at places of worship
special prayers, heedless of caste or religion.
both the priests
and the atheists
gathering separately.
rallies and hunger strikes
take place without saying,
money is lavishly spent.
The only bit of worry is
whether the barbed wire fence
will get wrenched out.
THE PRISON IN THE OPEN
With the bunch of keys
you left behind in a hurry,
I too am joining you
in your journey.
Though your solitary cell
had no door
you kept with you the bunch of keys.
In the ring made from
the hair of women
you had strung
many keys, in many designs.
For your resurrection
without doors
the music of the keys
is essential.
In that moment
when your bunch of keys rested,
my breeze
invaded your cell.
You became wrathful
and set fire to my house.
Fine.
I am sending you my sparrow
untouched by the fire till now.
May your cell
be suffused with light.
FORGETTING DEATH
Death is not final
as we think it to be.
We will die many times
as long as we are alive.
Until the end, it will remain a stranger.
The loss will not be forgotten.
It will wrap itself around our throat
like a constricting python.
We will be unable to unload it
even when we visit the toilet.
Like a ghoul set fee,
uncertain where to go.
The list will roll out
endlessly,
beginning with
mother, father, friend, kin
and rolling on with
the people living in the same street,
the people living in the same village,
the people speaking the same language.
If anyone tells you
that Time heals,
don’t trust them.
One can live without crying
One can live without thinking
One can train oneself to go sleepless.
The only thing
one cannot stop
is the death
coming alive in your dreams.
