K. Selvam and Company

K. Selvam had known he was
Hindu from the time he was born
but he had not understood it
well enough because he was
chasing after burkha-clad
women at Ghousia Ploytechnic.
He dreamt of
a certain Miriam’s appled thighs
and milky torso
Miriam’s appled thighs
were bruised the night she tried
to jump the iron gate
when her brother locked her out,
because she looked at Shabbir
and didn’t bat her mascara-dipped eyelids
not once
for a very hazy minute she had thought
her brother watched “Friends”
discussed football and women
with the colony boys
and so he wouldn’t care if she ogled.
Shabbir had sat through
psychology class staring
at the small of her back
her small small back that
made him dream of creamy coffee
and rainy days and no college
only only walks and bike-rides
and a dance-sequence. If she thought
it was cool then
he thought it was cool.
When Sonia brought home
Her small back after college, she
saw grave-looking parents,
a pregnancy test in their hands
she thought she had hidden well
There was talk of pastors, marriage
homosexuality, the pope
But I didn’t hear very
much after that.

I think they broke
Her with a Bible that night.


(Written September sometime. )

This poem was written in June, during a ten-day stint in Chennai. I warn you, it is a bit long. Thin line between prose and poetry. I hope to have more Madhur Chronicles if I didn't stiffen up every time I sat down to write a poem, or anything that didn't have a 'lead'.

Madhur - One.

Madhur: thirty-seven, children well-fed, wife occasionally beaten,
pot-bellied (as good corporation accountants must be)
sits on a wooden chair with a stained cushion,
penning poetry with numbers,
that run into digits he imagined only
the distance from Madurai to Michigan to be.
small beginnings to stool to small chair.
This is as far as he will go to Michigan - Madras.
The whiskey at the bureaucrat’s daughter’s wedding,
(Vidya, ample bosom, weds Aswin, very likely to begin balding)
was too stiff for a Wednesday night.

He sits bewildered, disoriented, hungover,
(The whiskey still tingling in the hair in his ears)
wishing the flickering tube lights would make up their mind,
and this breed of Thursday evening mosquitoes
would vanish now.
He has too much ghee in his veins,
a raging inferno in his tummy
every time he thinks of the suede seats
of his recently-designated Ambassador
(For pick-ups and drops to residence only)
that await his bottom and his itchy thighs.
Corporation accounting’s a hard job,
and his back has begun
to let his belly flirt with gravity a little more every day.
Today the ledger has been dull(officially)
Today it has not been duly raped by the nib of his pen
but today an unrelenting worm has entered Madhur from
the abyss between his bum
when his third unofficial gain of the year
took place from under the table. (yes, it
happens that the phrase is not unfounded)
just for the miniscule meddling of one Mr.Mukesh’s accounts.

Now he has understood,
(in the peak of his extended youth)
That he is an important rung in the accounting ladder
that he, the simpleton from Madurai( with that stupid leftist
railway official father and stupid dead mother)
has the power over the yellow-green ruled register,
which didn’t squirm today
at the odd rounding-up of crores
He, Madhur is just a
minor defaulter in this system of
many, many many.

One full bundle of notes, Parker pen(roller-ball), and promised family trip(by air)
are only one of thousand green lights at the signal
which will help him
(better still, the driver) speed his Ambassador to the final rung of glory.
the golden universe of
Air-conditoners,
Water-purifier in the office
Filter coffee on demand
Press conferences
and No consequences.
It is the coming around of things,
the joining of hands of karma, dharma
and Mukesh Sharma,
the man with the hand under the table.
(hands mostly in his pants between 11:00 and 11:20 p.m)
So from Friday morning, 10.30 a.m.
(after the idol of Lakshmi is his drawer is worshipped)
madhur will embark on a new journey filled with the clichés
of a ten-steps-to-success-book
(Smart work, not just hard work,
confidence is the key…)

He will write furiously,
like an accountant on a stove,
miss his afternoon nap
But he will not hesitate
to change 8s to 0s,
slip in overhead costs as a compulsory clause
for all transactions, all grants,
even if they are not as respectable as 8 digit figures.

So write, Madhur, write and don’t tremble when you play God.
You are the mascot for the average aspiring bureaucrat
You are the anti-Chirst for honest Mr.Solomon eating beef from his tiffin,
day after day. He will never know what clean water tastes like.
You will scribble for the love of the white-collared
the blue-collared, the sweat-collared, the collarless, the shirtless,
and even the bodiless whose bitter ashes are strewn in the cemeteries
on which your office fattens.
(those who played underdog, dog and the dog-collared.)
You are the bookkeeper of open secrets,
Damn some Right to Information something
Damn the fees you pay for moral education (for Santosh and Kamat)
Damn the small Goldflake Honey cigarettes.
Buy Kings. Buy Malboros.
Buy broadband, buy it, and be burned at a funeral
where they serve food from the priciest Darshini
and water from mineral bottles.

(Deepika Arwind, June 2008)

I’m hardly yours Anil.

It was 10 p.m and

your flannel-checked shirt like

a technicolor chessboard revealed

thick curled strands of hair,

and glimmering below was

gram-coloured

sweat-shaded

chest.

It was 10. 02. when

I had vowed to pluck every

plastic button out with my bare teeth,

until I reached the golden buckle

of your belt.

It was 10.08 and my gums weak,

I had cheated, and used two fingers

to yank out the last of the buttons.

10.10 and I had opened the fly

of your stitched pants, with the smell

of recent tailoring,

By 10.12, my hands floundering,

I could see the stray strands

of your moustache quivering

with heavy breath.

At 10.14 and some negligible

seconds later, before the mobile

vibrated,

before you zipped up,

your wife had a craving for chaat,

and your kids, cake fudge,

and a drive to the new airport.

I’m hardly yours Anil.

(Finally wrote.)