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Joined: 14 May 2011, 20:30


#1 Post by SivaRamanathan » 19 Sep 2012, 11:26

There are these favourite spots
Papa took us on Sundays
to sit and gaze at the museum
by night.’ Look at the spot–light
focused on coconuts
till they gleam like burnt gold,’’
he said.
The nuts shine, the leaves cast
black shadows,
the red and white building
sits like a painting on a mound
the loud speakers of the radio
blare, the Malayalam news
reels, Yesudas moves us
in carnatic faith.
Our parents stroll around
in circles. I lift my frock a little
and my brother has no need to.
We jump about, we gallop,
we eat cutlets and lick ice-cream
and savour banana fries
sure to come back a month hence,
to the beach , museum, Veli,
Kovalam, railway station, zoo
aquarium, and the sea-shore temple,
Muruga at Manjalikulam . Sometimes
Arivikara, Neyyar, but
always the museum.

The morning museum is another story.
It’s my realm. Like a native I lead
my county relatives, with the well learnt
talk of a tourist guide, hammered in
so that the throne, the kings who sat,
the bed the thamburatis lay on,
the umbrella and the wooden-slippers
the ivory comb, the Gita, the sword
the shield is all a velvety story.

His story, her story, its story, their story
whatever it is, it is not for me to explain
every toothpick.

The afternoons outside the museum
is an open bedroom
telling another matinee story.

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