Life-en-treats

This is a story a friend of mine told me once. She had a friend who wrote great poetry. It was full of deep feelings about death and suffering and she had wondered how and why he could write so beautifully. She asked him how he had come to write about these things with such sensitivity. And he told her that he once had a friend. A great friend. The friend and he walked back together from college everyday. Through woods and rivers. For, that’s the kind of place North Kanara is. One evening the friend stopped on the bridge of the river they crossed everyday on their walk back, saying he wanted to say something to him. They stood on the bridge and friend said, “Don’t believe any of this, it’s all an illusion”. And jumped into the river and died. My friend had gone cold on hearing this. So did I. I was actually jealous of this guy who could jump into the river just like that. We were in a bus. I thought she was in love with this poet-friend. But she had just lost a love and I had too. She ...

P was a great guy. The care he showed to his grandmother, made me think that he was a loving guy. The girl who marries him was a lucky one, I thought to myself. "Jesus Christ", he would say every now and then, I carried that habit with me to India, and curse myself upon saying it. P's parents were separated. I looked closely at him, to see if it had scarred him. Nah, he said. And you? He asked. "I too was like you for many many years, until it got to me." He shook his head in dissapproval. I spoke of my research and told him it was about enlightenment. We began to say something about Meditation together. He then gave me what was the most cynical expression his face could ever conjure up, saying "it leads nowhere". I smiled. I wished some Buddhist or Zen techniques helped us connect things and take off from Patanjali Yoga. That would do so many people good. 6 years or so ago, my brother and I would have given that same cynical look to anyone seem...

The traditional words pushed me around Into asking just one question Who am I? And I knew I would be condemned if I said my name. I pleaded ignorance And ran on the path of seeking realizations, until dissatisfied I found resolution in learning to just say, I am not that name. Strangely, I found you. You were not supposed to be there Or anywhere near. You have asked me too, every morn, in awe, who are you? I could have simply said, ‘I am not you’ But I knew you would be angry and so I chose to stay quiet.

I have looked in the mirror And found you I have felt disgusted. Can I change this smile, this grin, this tear… If only I could… You pervade my life In spite of my conscious rejections. Your prolonged existence is choking me It stagnates my efforts, stunts my movements. You cry at all this, But you don’t realize that the male, malicious contents prolongedly exist in your and my relations, in your and my bodies coaxing us both into often looking into the mirror and crying . And often have I lost you thus.

What is it that brings us together Again and again, No matter how much we fight, differ or be similar. It is not love, for there was no love ever Only unsuccessful attempts At self-hypnotic assurances All psychological strategies-a web of thoughts that eludes us in the final run. No compassion or sympathy. Lets ask ourselves, Of the difference, loss or gain we would make to each other. Between you and me We have shared a few sentences. And the sentences, no, they were not special or anything Like the immortal ‘I love you’ They just were there… And I wonder at how We both together, make it our task to reinterpret, rewrite and make corrections in the grammar and structure of just those few clustered words. And we have gone on for so long, without satisfaction or benefit.

My Poem My poems do not narrate a story, And don’t intend falling into the spaces and triads of music. To the rhythms of tunes, rhymes, drums, - they don’t respond. They contain no deceit, no pre-meditated device With no fascination to lure scholar or saint. The seductions of the ecstasies of the thoughts of the powerful are not hailed in my poetry All the historically created light is paleness for me… my senses don’t bloom to their metaphors of the first rains etc. My poems do not encourage those pretenses of the clothed bodies Life tells… it exposes the rhythms of life’s cruel denials. From the toiling bodies of my people my poetry spills forth sounds …cries of new life. Indudhara Honnapura (Kannada Dalit thinker and writer) Trans: Sushumna Kannan ‘Aa’ ‘aa’ and When I opened my eyes and moved my limbs: in the dark caves of my avva’s eyes burned the hearth. Surrendering his dark body to fire appa breathed a modest beedi while the gruel on the h...

Objective : To understand how deep-rooted gender stereotypes are and how they are naturalized through language Methodology : Story and discussion Material : Copy of the Surgeons story, writing material Time : 45 mins Activity : Read out the following story: One day a man goes to the circus with his son. On the way, whilst crossing the road, a car knocks down the boy. He has serious head injuries and needs to go to a hospital immediately. The man rushes the boy to the hospital and he lands up on the surgeon’s table. The surgeon takes one look at the boy and cries out “ I cannot operate on him! This is my son!” Discuss: Ask the group to give their immediate responses to the story. It is very likely that quite a few people who haven’t heard this story before will be not be able to arrive at the possibility of the surgeon being a women and therefore the boy’s mother. After arriving at the same facilitate a discussion on: 1.  Why we never thought that the surgeon might be a wom...