An Introduction by Kamala Das
I don't 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 am Indian, very brown, born in Malabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don't 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, half Indian, funny
perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don't
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.
When I 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
Brother's 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. Don't 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. Don't play pretending
games.
Don't play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don't 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.
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with
Nehru. I am Indian, very brown, born in
Malabar. I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Themes:
1. Gender discrimination
2. Feminism
3. Equal rights
4. Freedom
5. Yearning for fulfilment
6. Marriage & responsibility
7. Searching for identity
8. Sexuality
9. Loneliness
10. Courage
11. Self-exposure
12. Love
Techniques
· Enjambment
· Repetition
· Anaphora
· Free verse language
· Allusion
· First person narration
· Imagery
· Dramatic presentation
· Symbolisms
· “Crows & lions” – The different aspects of using a language
· “Hungry haste of rivers” – desire of a women
· “Ocean’s tireless waiting” – The endless of a woman’s longing for love
AL resource book provided by NIE, www.poemanalysis.com,
www.owlcation.com
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