An Introduction I dont know politics but I know the names Of those in power, and can repeat them like Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru. I amIndian, very brown, born inMalabar, I speak three languages, write in Two, dream in one. Dont write in English, they said, English is Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins, Every one of you? Why not let me speak in Any language I like? The language I speak, Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses All mine, mine alone. It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps, but it is honest, It is as human as I am human, dont You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the Incoherent mutterings of the blazing Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair. WhenI asked for love, not knowing what else to ask For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me But my sad woman-body felt so beaten. The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me. I shrank Pitifully. Then … I wore a shirt and my Brothers trousers, cut my hair short and ignored My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook, Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh, Belong, cried the categorizers. Dont sit On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows. Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to Choose a name, a role. Dont play pretending games. Dont play at schizophrenia or be a Nympho. Dont cry embarrassingly loud when Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call Him not by any name, he is every man Who wants. a woman, just as I am every Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans tireless Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone, The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and, Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I In this world, he is tightly packed like the Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns, It is I who laugh, it is I who make love And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner, I am saint. I am the beloved and the Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I. Kamala Das
Posted on: Sat, 08 Mar 2014 07:01:09 +0000
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