Kiranmala's Aunts
Here she lay her gunny-bag sacks, memories of scorched bricks,
broken tiles and emaciated fig leaves that have settled like dust
inside the roots of her hair. A staunch believer in the archaeologist's
facility to dig up the burdened tales from amongst the wrinkles
of a pebble's chin, she had left the jeweled waist-band at the threshold.
Hoping her two brothers who slept in peace inside the daddy-king's palace,
will join her soon. Now, as she tries to be the grave-digger herself, she
realizes, one needs much more than goodwill to tell the tales those left out
by the folklorist's compilations.
Like her aunts.
Last night, they came uninvited in her sleep. Chhotomashi licking the last remains
of a fishbone from her lips. And baromashi munching on a paper-bag full of chilli
smeared fried chick-peas.
She would have loved to suck
that fishbone herself. Mine her
fingers through that paper-bag
full of brown-yellow grains.
Yet, the thorn-bed between them.
Like a war-memorial—
straight, sturdy and erect.
No matter how much her fingers bleed through the clay-kernels,
there are things she will never guess. Accordingly, instead of
trying to paint with her eyes the perfect shade of green the leaves
in her aunts' courtyards bore, she lets her tongue imagine the red
of the chilli-dust which garnished their respective palates.
Notes:
A re-interpretation of the folktale “Kiranmala” as it appears in Dakshinaranjan Mitramajumder's Thakumar Jhuli (Tales from Grandma's Bag), a classic compilation of Bengali folktales. The word mashi in Bengali means “maternal aunt” or mother's sister. The word baromashi denotes oldest aunt, while the word chhotomashi denotes the youngest aunt.
Here she lay her gunny-bag sacks, memories of scorched bricks,
broken tiles and emaciated fig leaves that have settled like dust
inside the roots of her hair. A staunch believer in the archaeologist's
facility to dig up the burdened tales from amongst the wrinkles
of a pebble's chin, she had left the jeweled waist-band at the threshold.
Hoping her two brothers who slept in peace inside the daddy-king's palace,
will join her soon. Now, as she tries to be the grave-digger herself, she
realizes, one needs much more than goodwill to tell the tales those left out
by the folklorist's compilations.
Like her aunts.
Last night, they came uninvited in her sleep. Chhotomashi licking the last remains
of a fishbone from her lips. And baromashi munching on a paper-bag full of chilli
smeared fried chick-peas.
She would have loved to suck
that fishbone herself. Mine her
fingers through that paper-bag
full of brown-yellow grains.
Yet, the thorn-bed between them.
Like a war-memorial—
straight, sturdy and erect.
No matter how much her fingers bleed through the clay-kernels,
there are things she will never guess. Accordingly, instead of
trying to paint with her eyes the perfect shade of green the leaves
in her aunts' courtyards bore, she lets her tongue imagine the red
of the chilli-dust which garnished their respective palates.
Notes:
A re-interpretation of the folktale “Kiranmala” as it appears in Dakshinaranjan Mitramajumder's Thakumar Jhuli (Tales from Grandma's Bag), a classic compilation of Bengali folktales. The word mashi in Bengali means “maternal aunt” or mother's sister. The word baromashi denotes oldest aunt, while the word chhotomashi denotes the youngest aunt.
Nandini Dhar's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Muse India, Kritya, Mascara Literary Review, Off the Coast, Pratilipi, tinfoildresses and Sheher: Urban Poetry by Indian Women. Nandini grew up in Kolkata, India, finished her M.A. in Comparative Literature from University of Oregon, and is now a Ph.D. Candidate in Comparative Literature at University of Texas at Austin.