A tale of three afternoons
Dear Mrs Kamala Das, We are destined to meet in words, you and me! Be it our shared lingual franchise, our roots, the ruminations of the society we have inherited, the philosophies we grope around with in our lives or quite simply our gender even. I came to know you on a sunny little humid afternoon as I worked out my laziness at an aunt’s house in the very Malabar you grew up in and made eternal through your words. I began reading a manuscript of Indian poets. It began with your poem. It spoke of your fatal seduction by your husband. Within minutes we were on an intimate journey, you and I. To say the least, I was first alarmed and quickly piqued at how as a 20 year old I could sense your sense of detachment yet ardour of your complaint on what should be ‘conjugal bliss’. I moved on pleasantly to explore Jayant Mohapatra and Nizim Ezekial, whom I thought quite impressive in his metre as well. I must say that I held together in a couple of typed photocopied notes; some of India’s fines...