Wednesday, November 4, 2009

State of affairs

Her cracked feet
sport deep ridges of mystery
like the stories she narrates.
Of suicides and extra affairs
Of murder and revenge
Of angry housewives and hating in-laws
Of the lost glories and new rises

Behind the haystack and
beneath the temple walls
She knows it all.
Like a temple threshold
she is crossed by all.

Children fall sick and she knows
which lemons to choose to ward off the evil.
A mid-wife and a grandmother
An exorcist and a foreseer
To the rich widower, some say
She is also a wife.

For anyone teasing her
there are ancient quips in store
She threatens to send evil to their house
to carry away those who are half asleep.
They try to win over her, asking
for stories heard a thousand times before.
Too scared are these children.

4 comments:

BP said...

A really nice poem.

We don't quite hear these kinds of stories these days, much less in poetic form. Recently, I've been to a kannada play (monoacted) in which the sole character resembles the one in this poem. She did have cracked feet, she narrates stories of extra affairs, murder and revenge and the children are too scared of her and too excited of her stories.

I have recently began to follow your feeds and I think once I gradually catch up with the existing posts, I should be able to appreciate the newer ones better.

Keep writing. Poems are a rarity these days (and information theory tells us thats why they are valuable).

--Praveen

Musings of a wanderer said...

@Praveen

Thanks for your comments. Yes, I agree. These days we don't have such characters in the cities but villages do.

Long ago you had commented on a poem called " Pattern" in my blog. You said "Remember me?". I tried hard and failed. And today again I see your comment.

aria said...

It did paint the woman vividly.
I remember hearing these kind of stories from my grandmother et al.. and even reading stories on them .. but this is the first poem I've read on the subject.

Musings of a wanderer said...

@Aria

Grandmothers were repositories of such stories. I keep wondering what we will be telling our grand children. May be horror stories about long corridors and airplanes melting them.