WORDS AND ILLUSTRATIONS BYShobhana Kumar
Listen to this story. Narrated by Shobhana Kumar
My relationship with the Nilgiris began three generations ago, when my grandfather, a newly married graduate from one of South India’s most prestigious colleges, decided to travel from the fertile lands of Tanjore (now Thanjavur) to the Nilgiris, where he first worked with the forest department and later, at a private enterprise. It was here that the young couple started a family, opened their homes to the poor and downtrodden and lived a life that was ignited by the call of Mahatma Gandhi. It was here that he began to eschew a life of comfort and seek one instead in frugality, high intellectual pursuit and a profound spiritual awakening.
He gave up fine clothing and wore khadi all his life. For every rupee he earned, he made sure a part was given back. He wrote a prayer to his favourite god a hundred thousand times a year. He joined the Vidyaranya Salt March and was jailed, but nothing quite deterred him from wanting to free his land and her people. In the Nilgiris, he also taught his children to hold their lives close to the forest, the mountains, and all the secrets they offered.
His story is that of many thousands of foot soldiers who believed in Tagore’s vision of India. In many ways, it holds a common thread to people of the generation—a largesse of heart and a life of endless giving. His words shaped my father, and in turn, my sibling and me. In tracing his life through the early 1930s and after, I discovered several fragments that became important milestones in chronicling his life. In the journey of ‘An Uncommon Migrant’ (working title), uncles, cousins, and extended family began sharing snippets—photographs, some bric-a-brac, two diaries in which he made his prayer entries, and the like. And then, there were stories, most of which my father shared with me until his passing in 2008, and those borrowed from other members of the family.
The manuscript that emerged from these voyages is the retelling of a couple with modest means of living and their shared value systems. It speaks of death, a common intruder in the India of the 1930s, my grandfather’s weltanschauung, his principles and the enormous love he shared with his wife. Presented here are five poems from the collection.
As a student in the Cambridge of the East, Kumabakonam Arts College. Photo Credits (all): Rehna Navin
1.
His favourite grandchild shares an old photograph on the family group chat. Nostalgia erupts. Tears well.
Sepia
It has been fifty years and some
since that smile froze forever
on a frayed black-and-white,
the edges eaten by slow
time and silverfish.
The roughhewn khadi
has worn itself thin
at the shoulders
from years of wearing.
Large shell-frames hide
the benevolence of kind eyes,
one rich with Shakespearean lore,
the other, gentled
by the Mahatma’s call.
The smile tugs
at the heartstrings,
its calm cloned
on four generations
of the family tree
urging its bearers
to hold on.
I am afraid
this story too will be swallowed
for want of tellers—
like millions of migrants,
common in their being,
uncommon in their seeking.
2.
Her kitchen always overflowed with the goodness of warm, whole food. They said she could turn a few humble ingredients into a king’s feast. And everyone was invited.
Choices
Withered ladies’ fingers,
shrivelled brinjals,
tad-too-old potatoes
just-about-to-burst-from-over-ripeness tomatoes,
she picks each with tenderness
and places them in the wicker vegetable basket.
Why, this needless sense to reach out, tend and care
for the about-to-rot, her young son of ten asks.
She smiles, her laugh lines
wisened by work and worry
and says, we must do
what we can to turn
all that has been passed over
to what they truly can be.
3.
They were an uncommon couple. In the way they lived and loved. He did not know of a life without her.
Revelations
The body knows
when it is time.
This slow dismembering
from within,
the upheaval of want,
the child-like yearning—
to savour a mango
on a deep, dark December night,
a desperate longing
for the rustle of silk
just once more before
the being goes up in flames,
the sudden thirst
for some milk
with sugar and cardamon
all simmered down
until nothingness
heaves up
down
up
down
and slowly, gently,
almost as if the going
must be like dawn
descending
upon
night.
She goes quiet into the light
as he watches her for a long, long time.
Only, he knew before she did.
4.
The day she died, the house receded into quietness. They had always shared everything between them. Even their dreams.
Ink Devils
Every marriage
ends on a lonely bed.
One has left,
one is left
bereft
of all belonging,
the longing now curtailed
within the cleave
between the pillows.
between the pillows.
The past slips,
slaloms into the creases
of the unmade half.
On the other,
the slate comes clean ,
almost as if no memory
was ever made.
5.
He died in his sleep. He had so much more to offer. And yet, he had always seemed ready to leave. Especially after she died.
