Kamala Das’ Verses - III

There was a time when our lusts were
Like multicoloured flags of no
Particular country. We lay
On bed, glassy-eyed, fatigued, just
The toys dead children leave behind
And, we asked each other, what is
The use, what is the bloody use?
That was the only kind of love,
This hacking at each others parts
Like convicts hacking, breaking clods
At noon. We were earth under hot
Sun. There was a burning in our
Veins and the cool mountain nights did
Nothing to lessen heat. When he
And I were one, we were neither
Male nor female. There was no more
Words left, all words lay imprisoned
In the ageing arms of night. In
Darkness we grew, as in silence
We sang, each note rising out of
Sea, out of wind, out of earth and
Out of each sad night like an ache

(By Kamala Das, from the book My Story

It was again the time of rain and on
Every weeping tree that lush moss spread like
Eczema, and from beneath the swashy
Earth the fat worms surfaced to explode
Under rain. It rained on the day my son
Was born, a slanting rain that began with
The first labour pains and kept me
Company, sighing, wailing, and roaring
When I groaned so that I smiled and stopped my
Plaints to hear its grief. I felt then that
Only the selfish had fears, that only
The unloving felt pain and then the first
Tinge of blood seemed like another dawn
Breaking. For a while I too was earth.
In me the seed was silent, waiting as
A baby does for the womb’s quiet
Expulsion. This then was my destiny.
Walking into the waiting room, I had cried,
When once my heart was vacant, fill the
Emptiness, stranger, fill it with a child.
Love is not important that makes the blood
Carouse, nor the man who brands you with his
Lust, but is shed as slough at the end of each
Embrace. Only that matters which forms as
Toadstool under lightning and rain, the soft
Stir in womb, the foetus growing, for
Only the treasures matter that were washed
Ashore, not the long blue tides that washed them
In. When rain stopped and the light was gay on our
Casuarinas leaves, it was early
Afternoon. And, then, wailing into light
He came, so fair, a streak of light thrust
Into the faded light. They raised him
To me then, proud Jaisurya, my son,
Separated from darkness that was mine
And in me. The darkness that I have known,
Lived with, the darkness of rooms where the old
Sit, sharpening words for future use,
The darkness of sterile wombs and that of
The miser’s pot, with the mildew on his coins.
Out of the mire of a moonless night was
He born, Jaisurya, my son, as out of
The wrong born the right and out of night
The sun-drenched golden day

(By Kamala Das, from the book My Story