Nair, Anita;
Malabar Mind
Harpercollins 2011, 96 pages (pb)
ISBN 9789350290088
topics: | poetry | india | english
starting with the early pages, i was impressed. many of the poems worked for me, and i felt that perhaps anita nair is another name that can be added to the list of of powerful women voices in indian english poetry today... as it is among contemporary poets of indian english, my favourites today are both women authors: * sampurna chattarji (see Sight May Strike You Blind), though her finest work may be her gobwhimsical translations of the nonsense verse of sukumar rAy. * anjum hassan : captures poignantly the ambiguities of life in a small town. See Street on the hill (2006)
. but later on down, the language starts to disappoint...
this volume of poetry was released in 2011 (though it was actually a much older volume, see below). nair impresses when telling us what she wants out of life: I like my body to be loved touched, stroked and desired. I am a woman who lives to fulfil her nerve-end longings. (free fall) and her poetry seems to fulfil our nerve-end longings for poetry. many of the early poems, with the earthy scent of kerala's beaches and temples, talk strongly to me. Some of the lines transfer an experience or an imagination that unsettles : Grandfather's concubine died yesterday. Who will light his lantern at night? And then in the midst of a lament by a devotee of shiva, you suddenly come across the line: I shall no longer... hide the blackness of your tumescence and you wonder if that is just there for the jolting effect... her relationship poems beat to a modern theme: Let us be friends, you said Let us be friends, I agreed. - You Said, I Agreed but as you turn deeper into the book, the poems seem less fresh.
some poems seem to tire after a promising start, as in "Hello Lust": I should have seen lust when it came calling.. For it visits you.. fragrant of sunshine, grass and sly desires or "A brief respite" starts with a twist Wave after wave of lunch but degenerates into banalities.) some poems seem outright dead, like The House is Waiting, or The highway some are too direct, as in The soldier's song or An ostrich's love song. some others are inscrutable and fail to work, as in An Investment of Faith. In fact, the entire second half of the book is mostly lame. as kala krishnan ramesh says in his The Hindu review, "Anita's verse seems a little underdone. ... had this poet been a better craftsperson, ... her words would [not have been] tripping up the unwary reader." i would not pass so strong a judgment as questioning her craftsmanship, but surely she could have worked in a bit more of suggestion into some of the later poems. her eye is vivid, but some phrases keep cropping up, such as "cigarette butts" and "burnt sienna". Arundhathi Subramaniam, reviewing it in kavya bharati is perhaps more accurate when she accuses many poems of being "more spelt out than necessary". nonetheless, definitely a more than respectable book of poetry...
the edition i have is from harperCollins 2011. though the publication information page does not list any other editions and the copyright date says 2010, the book was originally published in 2002, by Yeti Books in Calicut. possibly even in 1997, see http://www.anitanair.net/novels/mm/index.htm. aren't the publisher's legally required to indicate earlier editions?
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Know this, woman Clasped around my forearm are a thousand suns. The mark of who I am Mostly a man, sometimes a God. Crawling, marauding I feel your eyes Trace vermilion, turmeric and rice paint paths Slashing the brown silk of my skin. Woman, I feel your touch. The debris of light The density of a starless night. My forefinger my brush, Glistening lamp black my paint. When your eyes meet mine In the mating pool of the mirror, My hand falters, The line smudges. Woman, you do not know what you do to me. Woman, I have shed my skin. I have sipped at timelessness Now I shall cease to be. [...] Muthappan has spoken. He no longer needs me. My crown of power is of wilted grass. The salt of sweat runs down my brow. WIth fingers that had once sought perfection I wipe away the guise of divinity. Woman, I am once again who I was. A man with skin and eyes That seek yours. Woman, let me match my longing with yours. Let me sear your lips with mine. Let me burn your flesh with my hunger. Why then do you evade me now? Is it that you smell the savage? Is it that you fear who I was? Woman listen. I am a man; Only sometimes a god.
I
Flaming
A tongue of yellow
darted.
Searching
Probing
The flaming deep.
The aching hips
The swollen lips.
Waves rose.
Drain the fire.
Swallow the heat,
the tumultous seed.
Hope.
An unvoiced desire
to create
to nourish
a golden being
for a brief while.
[...]
I like my body to be loved touched, stroked and desired. I am a woman who lives to fulfil her nerve-end longings. I paint these days splashes of colour: a lone fish three women in brown. My home is an embryo faceless feet roam restlessly above and below. My husband is busy climbing his way up to loneliness. The mail box gushes junk mail and family pleas. My children are ferns in pots. They demand little from me opening fists into my face. Sometimes I dream and dream some more: I splash in a rock pool Breathe beneath water discover coral gardens and secret caves take a merman lover go underwater live life, free fall.
I want to sit beside you in a rowdy dingy pub Legs dangling, shoulders jostling, knees touching I want your breath to drain the sweat off my brow And for you to lick the bitterness off my lips I want your eyes to seek mine I want to hear the hushed lust in your voice amidst the noise. I want to sit beside you in a dark balcony Where yesterday's washing doesn’t flap its crackling wings I want us to hear the night call Watch shadows play ball and time creep up a celestial wall I want your fingers to unerringly seek mine I want to exist as more than a mere habit.
In his eyes, the lunatic gleam. "Ta ta Madras, ta ta fiends of hell Keep your lady politicians and diseased flies." The Malabar mail wheezes and chuckles, Look at this girl, the lunatic stares, Her curves are ripe melons Pardon me, I know not what I think, May I touch your feet? Please My madness will vanish With the soft breeze. Let me go, I am not mad Only deprived Why did I leave the emerald cave? The River Nila Sand banks rising yellow and gritty Once flourished triangular hate The cow worshippers, the pig haters And the sunshine-haired cow eaters. No one knows how it came about. A thousand men piled into a carriage Trundled and truckled, gasping for life. When they opened the doors, The stench, they say Made people gag a mile away. In Malabar, they cannot forget, Sometimes the soft breeze smells of blood. The Zamorin saw his face On a piece of glass Opened doors to colonial greed. We have so much pepper, So many spices. Give it to them for mirrors Should man live a stranger to his face? Our men now sail the seas Across the bay to the desert Hope In the backwaters, women sail Lonely rafts, spinning coir, weaving dreams. Zubeida, creature of the grimy hovel Queen now of a green mansion Fish juices trickle down her chin every day Is there more to life? She asks. Geeta has her husband's voice on tape The children listen to it now and then Venu, distant cousin Loves her on Wednesdays and Fridays Satiating lust and a need to be held He caresses her skin. She licks his eyes and wills him To take her in rhythmic ecstasy It is only till ‘he’ comes home, She tells God. Malibar Manibar Mulibar Munibar Malibar Melibar Minibar Milibar Minubar Melibaria Malabria* Where the rain hisses Echoes of a thousand footsteps. Each seeking to measure the girth of wetness. Eaves drip countless forsaken thoughts Tiles splay revealing parted rafter thighs. Politics is a way of life Belong to a party For an identity The Congress or the RSS The Muslim League or the Communists. There is still about life here A quiet air of restfulness. Nayadi knee deep in slush Tractors and buffaloes his companions. Together they watch time amble by. How can man be content When he knows his rights? Militants dress in school teacher guises. The forest hides disenchanted hearts Madness threatens to erupt at any time. Lying in the limpid green pool Mouth open to catch the first dew drop. Grandfather's concubine died yesterday. Who will light his lantern at night? I wonder. Father came back from roaming the plains, Built a home and settled his books. Mother likes to think of nothing. The emerald cave has a soothing clutch. The devil bird weeps: Poo-ah, Poo-ah. I kiss my elephant hair talisman. Coconut palms rustle their fingers. Courage and the soft breeze Will cure madness, they say. What is This? 39 This must be it then: the derangement of all senses... when you breathe the Giorgio pulsing my pulse points and i am drunk on the whisky you sip between mouthfulls of espresso. words crawl and hiss between us. What we dare not... our syllables do with abandon with naked joy, they arch their necks a ritual to consummate this intensity so much more than mere desire. I give you my hand to clasp. i give you my cheek to kiss. I give you my dreams to remember me by.
Let us be friends, you said Let us be friends, I agreed. Let there be nothing more, you said. Let there be nothing more, I agreed. I made no declarations, no promises, you said You made no declarations, no promises, I agreed. It was a minor aberration, a detour, you said. It was a minor aberration, a detour, I agreed. It isn’t as if I did anything, you said It isn’t as if anything happened, I agreed. We came out of it with dignity, you said. We came out of it with dignity, I agreed. p.46
Wave after wave of lunch of bitterness of love gone asunder of aloneness of matings of silences churned and churned some more Rushing up in a giant heave only to be sucked away by waters that gurgled and giggled at such human fatuousness at such emotional debris. Empty exhausted I stare into the mouth the toilet bowl where all the oceans of the world have gathered For now the world has stilled For now I carry no traces of the past p.47
Rain eludes me Rain always has I watch the skies Holding the window bars of an upper room Bubbled, cracked, silver-crusted nevertheless Through which once I saw love At the tip of a cigarette butt. I wait For the heave, the tremble, the sting Of the shy raindrop. For wetness To lash and cleanse and raise the loamy scent of a flesh long gone to sleep. Rain eludes me Rain did then. At night it falls in stealthy drips Into plastic buckets placed around our bed Where love flung bedclothes over its head. In the morning I watch my rain wash the bathroom floor Trickle and sing down a drain Carrying with it to ground The crumbling mortar of a dream. Rain eludes me Rain I can capture and hold. ... Rain eludes me Rain that I knew to be gentle once. These days, I hear the rain knock at the window pane Beg, plead, let me in I close my eyes, shut my mind ... rain, rain, go away... It is enough I know the rain lives That in some distant horizon it thrives. Some times I think I feel the rain When the avocado tree hums with bloom Drizzling sap beneath a cloudless April sky. p.62
With sandal and turmeric dust Yogurt gone a drippy sour And a few drops of rose-watered hope I fashion for myself a splendid new face for this new me. With this mask I willl Exfoliate the past speckled with yellow 'maybes' Seep within and gather the debris of rejection Smoothen weary pathways And cleanse all traces of devastating faint praise. p. 65
Mostly A Man. Sometimes A God 1 May You Sleep A Million years, Shiva 5 Lord of the universe Master of destruction, I stand before you Unwilling to be cowered. Vulcan In Brindavan 8 Vulcan in Love 11 when in love even gutters have green banks silvery ripples endless delights A Baga Imprint 15 Malabar Mind 21 Happenings on the London Underground 26 Rosa Mundi 29 Marmalade mornings. Dew licks its lips on rose petals. A timid river crawls, pauses, crawls through pepper wreathed arecanut groves. ... Rum and cola nights Paint daubs the skies. Burnt sienna and ashes of rose. The woods shiver. The day is reluctant to leave. Why Women Dream 31 Free Fall 35 I Want 37 Transgressions 38 What is This? 39 Sleepstar 41 The Deciding Day 42 Hello Lust 44 I should have seen lust when it came calling I should have known it by now. For it visits you shaking little bells at the door fragrant of sunshine, grass and sly desires ... later it pretends it never was there and all that happened was a state of mind best forgotten and tossed aside. You Said, I Agreed 46 A Brief Respite 47 Co-dependent 49 The House is Waiting 51 The Lullaby 56 Neglect is a habit you need to learn young One Sunday Evening 58 Rain 62 The Face Mask 65 Love For a Cat Man 66 Cat eyes don't reveal much Even as claws unsheath And the pounce hurls unbidden. Next Monet 68 An Ostrich's Love Song 70 The Highway 71 The Last Rites 73 An Investment of Faith 75 Flash-tale 78 Words Will Never Cease to Sing 80 The Soldier's Song 84 The Eleven o'clock News 85 Twenty Fellows 88 Grasslands 90 Rock Polishing -- Beneath the Chinese Elm Tree 91 Sunshine- The Colony Cat 92 A Gaggle of Gazebo Thoughts 94 The Cosmopolitan Crow 96
Anita Nair's is a restless poetic voice. It is a voice that seethes, that crackles, that would like to speak of many things, serially and simultaneously, that would like to speak in different registers and voices. It is a voice of warmth, of energy--a voice that engages. It is also unmistakably an accomplished voice--one that has done its time in the charged heat and tumult of the smithy of language, having savoured the textures, inflections, possibilities and limitations of words. The result is a welter of geographical and psychological landscapes, as the poetry extends from the wavering moment of contentment experienced by Mr Patel on the London Underground to the patronising wisdom of Paul, the visiting Czech; from the existential crisis of a contemporary urban Indian crow to the distillation of a moment on a quintessential Goan beach. The collection traverses a fair expanse of tonal terrain as well--from the intimate love poem with all its attendant ironies to more consciously philosophical reflections that ponder the moment of ‘a strange unbearable/ emptiness’ or those times when ‘dark and silence/ walk hand in hand’; from the humorous bits of whimsy about the cow or Sunshine, the Colony cat, to the more formal oracular address of ‘the fierce god Muthappan,’ ‘lord of the jungle, son of the tortured vines’ in ‘Mostly a Man, Sometimes a God.’ Nair's poetry certainly does not lack ambition, but it does on occasion lack the rigour necessary to translate its intent into effective poetry. And so you sometimes have a torrent of ‘heavy’ nouns where Nair could well have inserted an image for more evocative impact. ‘No memories./ No dreams./ No fears./ No desires./ No pain’ in ‘A Baga Imprint,’ for instance, seems more spelt out than necessary. Or else you find the pitfalls inherent in the ‘list’ poem where you are offered a catalogue of passive snapshot details (‘Twinkling light house./ Bent cigarette butts./ Squealing pig./ Ghost boat./ Juggler practising’--also from the same poem).
Anita Nair's first book of poems Malabar Mind is impossible to get away from. As Anita's words — the nuts and bolts of verse — come tumbling out, pouring all over the page, spilling into the reader's mind, the effect is like walking between thousands of rolling marbles in a room whose walls are closing in on you. You will realise two things — the first, that there is no safe passage through the poems in this collection, and second, that had this poet been a better craftsperson, her words would have done their work of holding together and showing the reader what meanings they stand for, rather than tripping up the unwary reader. [...] There is a crucial difference between being a poet of the ordinary and an ordinary poet. Finally, of course, it is up to every reader to judge whether the poems in Malabar Mind are worthwhile or not. One must admire the quality of sincerity that Anita brings to her poetry. One so sincere may yet learn the craft, may yet learn to exercise discrimination, that indispensable tool of every writer who wishes the reader to return to listen again to the timeless resonate in her writing.