a poem

Alone on the bed.

Sitting and typing.

Images flash by.

Images I have never seen.

Of what I think others have seen.

Of me.

How am I when I laugh.

Or when I talk.

Or when I listen.

How am I when I am angry.

Or when I know someone looking at me.

Or when I think someone is looking at me.

How am I in moments when I am far away.

Or when I am consciously far away.

What contours does my face take?

The physical features of this organ.

That so many look at. And so many don’t.

How do they mould and to what do they mould?

Who will tell me my truth?

Who will record my history for me?

from an earlier time

you know how it is.... tonnes of work and everything and every part of your head is rebelling against it... so i decided on some vela surfing... and began checking out stuff from my previous blog... this one i wanted to share again...

Sudgadamma'- that was her name. The first part of her name "Sudgadu" roughly translates to a sort of hell-like cemetary and is used in Kannada as an angry insult to tell someone to go die.

All of us- my mum, sis and i-wondered why anyone would name their kid that. The best we could come up with was maybe cos she was a girl baby.

It still could be true. But after what I heard today.... that dalits request brahmins to name their kids... these brahmins hardly enter the dalit bastis because it 'pollutes' and stinks.... and name the kid by any word that comes to their head at that moment... another possibility arises.

I think of how my friend was unhappy with Srinivas and wanted to change her surname to Bhat because it sounded good.... and i wonder how this lady felt every time she had to tell someone her name.

How did she refer to herself in her head? As sudgadu? Was she reminded of how unwanted she was everytime she thought of her name?

Can there be a more cruel way to condemn someone from birth than this?

I wouldnt be surprised if there were...