K. G. Sankara Pillai

1

The bird decided
to return from Utopia
when it could reach nowhere
after flying all its life.
If you have a place
to return to, you are free.

But where will the bird
return today?
There are hunters
waiting with invisible nets
There are those calling you
with the same-feather principle

There are those waiting
at the mast of poetry
to turn you into a flag of solitude.
There is daylight on the canvas
and a branch to roost on.
The finger and the brush are as alert as ever.

Where will the bird return
Today?
To whose dining table
as a favourite dish?
To the hymn of which Un-God?
To the cage of which pavement astrologer?
On which branch will
the bird returning from
Utopia roost?

2

The dusk hadn't come calling.
Nor was it sure where it was going
...

1

The baldhead and the baldhead have
little to hide from each other.
They can easily reflect the past and the present
in a glossy smile
But today the poet hides a something from the poet,
the traveller from the traveller,
the neighbour from the neighbour.
And India hides everything from China.
The unpopular idol of Harishchandra in Ajanta
blinds itself with the present
at midnight.
Everyone hides the trump-card,
everyone carries a knife, a tusk.
...

My dhoti had a red border.
The dhobi used to grumble:
Every time I wash it
The whole dhoti is stained.
I wonder where all this red comes from.
I have seen some like this before:
Arrogant, unruly, putting on airs.

Finally he lost his patience;
Hello, let me see if I can set this bloody red right.

He was very late with the washing this time.
Like a judge solemnly opening a file to read out a verdict
He silently opened the bundle of clothes.
The dhoti was white and fresh
And as handsome as a townsman.
But when I unfolded it
I saw it was all in tatters.
It had been beaten black and blue
On the hard cement slab
And all the blood red
Had been squeezed out of its veins.

But,
The rest of the clothes in the bundle
Had all turned red.
All the lakes and rivers
Had turned red.
...

Once upon a time
the passage from Thrikkakkara to Cochin harbour
exuded the faith and truth of a straight line.
From the docks one could see
the temple lights of Thrikkakkara.
And the lights in their turn saw
the blue waves bowing down in obeisance.

Long ago
before the turns and twists of
Tipu
Gama
the Varma dynasty of Cochin
before the thieves, cheats and liars
before the serpents with the fruit of knowledge
and the great leaps
of Printing, English and Allopathy
the passage of Thrikkakkara to Cochin harbour
was lit by the adage-like phosphorescence of moonless nights.

And flanking it
...

1

We need several photos, sir,
Of people like you
In various poses, bending, tilting,
Standing, walking,
Smiling, lost in thought,
With a palette and brush in hand,
Staring, smoking, browsing through a book,
Embracing your mate and children
And the now inseparable bosom foes,
Close-ups and long distance shots,
Photos in various poses, sir.
...

My dear dream
it is time for us to part
I have to report for duty.

My job is
to suspect and strangle
the dreams that roam around
at odd hours.
This uniform
the stick, the knife and the torch
are meant for that.

The dog that can smell death
is my companion.
The owl that preys on the mouse
that crawls under the fence
is my companion.

Some dreams come
as silence clothed in sound
as darkness in darkness
as colours in colours
as vigilance in wakefulness.
Some fruits of knowledge come
with no sign of time
However awake I am
they do not become my vision.
Dogs and owls
do not see them.
...

How fortunate we are
that there are walls
that walls have gates
and gates have locks

A small garden
and birdsong
the courtyard sleeps like
a dog I am alone within.

With folded fangs, observing
my domestic seclusion, the black
beauty of an alluring serpent
descends on the colours of the garden

How fortunate that
we have walls
that walls have doors
and doors have bolts
Lucky indeed that I can be
locked within
by my near
and dear ones
when they go to work.
...

Summer.
Sunday.
The married are all at home.
Alone in the deserted lodge
I am waiting for someone.
Is there anyone else to come?

The water jug has a hole.
It lies in a corner of the verandah
With the long neck of a camel.
Is there anyone else to come,
Tired, sweating, thirsty?

The fortune teller with his parrot is gone.
The villager looking for the house of the
ENT specialist is gone.

Everyone comes here with a thirst,
Along the same road yesterday came
The prophets and the messiahs
Sacrificing man to fate.

Gone are the emperors who
Tempting us with shady trees and wayside wells
Robbed us of our human lives.
Gone are Hieun Tsang and Vasco da Gama.
And Gandhi with the old time on his watch,
Gone too are the lip-revolutionaries
Dancing their tiresome plenums,
Draining the jug to its final drop.
Gone are all the minor characters
That I knew would come.
...