She tickles my ear with a golden brush
i wake from my nap with a primal sound
shakes like a jhimiki upside down
thinks it’s a game to ease my frown
What does she know about my ears?
This organ that she tickles so casually?
these were the ears into which my father said
we were going to Malgudi Taluk to see my bride
these were the ears into which my brother whispered
broken instructions about our first night
these were the ears that my new wife sucked
during the artha jamam — the last quarter of the night
when we at last became husband and wife
these were the ears that swelled to the lusty cry
of a healthy baby girl
and reddened at the news of her mother’s death.
what does she know, this chit of the girl?
this Indian rose who flits on a one legged path.
she tickles my ears and wakes me up.
little knowing the stories that they hold
she thinks after all that I am an old man
who could use a trick
chinna chinna aasai
small small desires
she says
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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