iii) Silken Resplendence

We chased the old turkey
across the wide compound,
while ayamahs showed off
their posh stolen sarees.

They’d looted our houses
when we fled for safety
and now we had come back
they thought it was funny
that Mummy wore housecoats
while they worked in silks
hung drying resplendent
in backyards.

The officers raided
our clothes from the wardrobe
Daddy spotted his groom’s suit
when he went for interview.
The hospital office housed
some of our furniture.
“The pants were too long
but the sofa fit fine”.

Eventually we got back
our armchairs and tables,
when Daddy dropped hints
that his family were seated
on floors with no tables -
they knew it was ours.

We caught the old turkey
across the wide compound,
but never got back
Mummy’s sarees.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

ii) Supine in Silence

We sat on a bullock cart
dangling our feet
watching them march past
upright and upstart.
We sat facing backwards
on earthernware cooking pots.
They’d told us to move out
from this house to that one.

We transported up and down
some clothes and some barangs
the people had warned us
just take what you need most,
“They’ll tell you to move out
from that house to this one.”
The bullock cart jostled
through occupied kampungs.

The sentries would stop us
inspecting our papers,
we sat very quiet
not breathing a curl -
watched closely their gun straps
as they checked our parcels.
They’d told us to move out
from this house to that one.

The bullocks were restless
they’d smelt a discomfort
and soon we heard scuffling
some young men were shouting,
their wrists were all bleeding
their eyes were blindfolded.
They’d told them to get out
from that house and this one.

They told us much later
they tortured and whipped them
their spines stretched to strip
them of secrets - they’d spilt.
They shoved them and moved them
from this jail to that one
and always in handcuffs
blindfolded and bleeding.

When later they freed them
they sat in a silence,
seceded and sapped,
moving sad, supine lips.

We sat on a bullock cart
dangling our feet,
but our ears heard the silence
of pain.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

i) Paperboat Crimson

We were children
in the garden
just running and playing
innocent and carefree,
giggling and laughing,

as we watched them coming
on bicycles from the north,
taking watches from wrists
taking over the country,
all the white men had fled
in a flash.

We were children
in the garden
just making and folding,
paper dolls and sailboats,
fighting and floating,

as the engines flew by
and the papers danced downwards
from white fluff in the sky;
we could not read
their writing
still strange to us.

We were children
in the garden
pondering and wondering,
secrets and messages,
murmuring and listening,

to uncles in whispers
“this damned occupation -
a time to be watchful
don’t cross them,
be careful.”

We were children
in the garden
when a shot cut the hush
and a cry cracked a window;
where the old man was hiding

a friend from his hometown
who would not bow down
and sing with a gusto
the words
of the Japanese anthem.

We were children
in the garden
when all of a sudden
our sailboats had turned
into crimson.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Breathing the Dust

Yesterday I craned my neck
and yet I could not see,
the rooftops in the city,
the towers in the dust.
The haze has settled
on all our homes
and the heat hangs heavy
on all of us.

Yesterday I stretched my mind
and yet I could not glean,
the beauty in the garden,
the tranquil by the lake.
The haze has settled
on all our heads
and the hoax hangs heavy
on all of us.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Barefoot in the City

Take off your shoes.
Enter the temple.
Let your soles
touch the bare
earth.

Feeling your toes
grip at the gravel.
Let your soles
touch and be
earthed.


Sweaty feet slip
out of casings.
Grimy shoes
in dusty scattering.
Mucky toes
now stretch to breathe
and slip-slide
the smooth
marble floor.


Take off your shoes.
Enter the temple.
Let your soles
touch the bare
earth.


Pedicures
in pinky salons.
Soaking feet
in soft solutions.
Nimble fingers
tug at callus.
Gentle tools
scrape out the dirt.

Pampering toes
and spoiling feet.
Silken brush strokes
cool of cutex.
Sinking heels
in luscious towel
waiting just
beneath.


Feeling your toes
grip at the gravel.
Let your soles
touch and be
earthed.


Shoeless
on the pavement stone
the old man's feet
are caked,
in crusted mud
and days of dust
his feet have no regard -
who handles this man's feet,
I ask?
who cares
if they are scarred?


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Riding the Beast

One man and his pariah dog
live along the highways
often see them walking
with their mobile home.
Bags of things
across his shoulders
dog stays by his side
sheltering under a broad flyover
traffic feasts their eyes.

One man and his pariah dog
sit and watch us driving,
often we are talking
on our mobile phones.
Bags of stories
fill our mouths
handset by the side,
whizzing across a broad flyover
the beast we are riding thrives.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

re:Construction

To Whom It May Concern.

Dear Sir
or Madam,

i)
All the places where I grew up
have been torn down
because they said
there was no space
and we were
becoming modern.

Why must they build
a police plaza in Pudu,
where my grandparents
grew 'old-man's darling'?

Why can't the state mosque
not be in Bukit Palah,
where I climbed the
frangipanni tree?

Why should the mega-mall
be at 218 Ampang
where I used to play
swinging 'moneyplant'?

Why do my memories
all have to be
only in my head
so I can't show
my children
and their children
and so on?

ii)
All the places
where I used to dream
have become towers
because they said they must
build high
and keep the flag flying
for everyone.

The race course
was meant to be
a park within the city.

The playing field
was meant to save
some space for greenery.

The forest reserve
was meant to run
the cable car for fun.

Why must the flag fly
so high where noone
with feet on the ground
can see or touch
or wave it?

iii)
I look forward
to hearing from you soon.
And thankyou.

Sincerely,
A City Girl
@Urbaness.my


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Art Anatomy

I never felt you until
you confessed by the car
that you wept at the strains
of a song.

that your fantasies grew
through the leaves of a novel
which you smuggled
with you into lectures.

that medical terms
were jargon which spliced
into Lawrence, Achebe,
and Roy.

how closely
anatomy
feeds into art

your theatre
is now where I lie.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

God of Guitar

Guitar strings plucked,
from my insides
a warm rush fills
my nicotined skin,
dim lights squinting,
smoke as spotlight warms,
there is music
before you even begin.

Trickling tones escape
the microphone,
a glint in the eye
and a half-smile tuning,
before the song escapes
from your fingers
trembling in the tenuous
touch of your guitar.

Thirsty for passion
in a hot, dry metropolis
I drink till I quench
each screaming note,
ranting and ravenous
an occasional missed chord
reminds me you too
breathe this city,

you also are caught
if it rains in the evening.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Mangosteen Crumble

Who would have thought
that tucked in snugly
within your hard casings
whose stains are so feared,
were juicy white segments
both slender and tender,
both sweetish and sourish,
and sometimes with seed?

You shy in a season
when durian reigns king
your deep purple surface
in bunches unsung
each juicy white segment
curved neatly to shape
sits waiting for mouths to suck
flesh from the seed.

Why don't we cook-up
a tangy concoction
a mangosteen puree
with sugar and spice;
and add to the mixture
a crunchy crust pastry
make crumble of sorts
with fresh cream on the top?

The taste would be perfect
a sour soft tart
with salty sweet topping
hot-cold and just right.
Your recipe waits
in the kitchens of vision
your servings unequalled
by desserts of old.

Mangosteen Crumble -
you haven't been born.
Forgive us for waiting
for banoffee pie
and durian ice cream
and pineapple jam
to retire.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Teh Tarik Tempo

Just how fast -
to swing the strainer
swish the koleh
twist the tin
stir the stuff
clink the glass
stretch the brew
let it froth
fill to brim
slice the spill
- is a secret.

'Tarik" in a glass
is life's special.
Nothing tastes
the same.

Cappucino in a cup -
just cannot compare.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

It's Time

When
the traffic gets inside my hair
the concrete boils inside my blood
the piling pounds within my head
the ratrace runs between my eyes -
it's time for teashop.

Just to sit and sip,
savour Pumpkin Soup
Mushroom Pie,Walnut Cake
and Earl Gray Tea.

Listen to others converse
Watch them lift cup to lip.
Let radio muzak play.
Stare calmly at traffic
through frosted glass.

Forget about
who hurt who
when to pay bills
where to find work
whose turn to cook.

Time for teashop.

Just to sit and sip
savour the funny breathing feeling
the pumping blood still flowing
the pricklish hairs which tingle
moving rhythms of my mind.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

No Shame

i) shame-full

Imperialist, I let you in;
allowed you through my creed;
sold out to faith and family,
entranced by flirtive fling.
I lurked within your shadows,
my goal was fortune's game.
Fecundity, acceptance,
within your grand acclaim.
Your tribute recognition,
leaving golden streaks of stain.

Until you came.
You stripped me.
Reclothed my virgin skin.
And then you stared
my nakedness
into a priceless shame.


ii) shame-less

Imperialist, I cast you out.
My body now my own.
Reclaimed, redeemed, respected.
Retrieved to mend my skin.
Restored to claim dread freedom;
Revived to chant respite;
Dignity breathes deeply.
Released, no longer held.

Now freed
to prostitute myself
with nakedness new clothed.
In homespun cottons
wrapped and draped.
No satin shines of shame.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Cellulies

i) Last time

Last time you called
I turned the other side.
Shut the door
then walked downstairs.
After four steps
I ran back
but the ringing had stopped.

Last time you called
I watched the phone stir.
Let the sound
rip through air.
After four breaths
I touched the receiver
and sighed.

Last time you called
I bit my fingernails.
Shut my ears
then felt wet cheeks
after four tears
had dripped on the wire.
I froze.

Last time you called
I waited by the phone.
Let it ring.
Picked it up.
After four 'Hi's'
I heard you ask why,
and I lied.

ii) This time

This time I promise
to allow you space for drinking
give you time for gambling
let you do the grumbling
leave you to your snoring.

This time I vow
to leave your clothes scattered
push up the toilet seat
never change your toothbrush
sniffle only when you sleep.

This time I swear
to stay away from office
wait for you to call me
watch you golf from distance
hear you sigh responseless

This time I will not
fall like a fool
be broken to smithereens
lie smashed like a banana skin
stare hopeless at the cracking wall.

This time
I guess
will not come.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Stained Fabric

Once
I let you
touch me
till my hairs tingled
and I woke up and found
a stale rojak packet
squashed under
my stretch
skirt.

Once
I let you
hold me till my tits froze
and I was spilling kuay teow
on my creased jacket
oily stains on my
sleeve.

Once
I let you
kiss me till my lips burned
and I found udang sambal
splashed all over
the starched collar
and pearl buttons
of my silk
shirt.

Once
I let you in
there's no telling
what will happen
to the linens and silks
of my wardrobe.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Mismarriage

Forced into marriage,
too old and too fat,
you are told
you must have him,
a doctor, no less.

Forced into children
too late and too long,
you are warned
they will drain you,
investment no less.

Forced into beatings,
too hard and too deep,
you are hushed
into silence
he's a tough man, no less.

Forced into anger,
too cold and too proud,
you are made
into martyr
for your child,
                     yes, no less.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

A Question of Rights

Whose right is it, I ask you
to tell me I should marry;
not be pleased with singlehood
make sure I find a spouse?

Whose right is it, I ask you
to show me who to marry;
decked in fine jewellery
make sure I pay a dowry?

Whose right is it, I ask you
to tell the man I marry
I want him for companionship;
make sure he will respect me?

Whose right is it, I ask you
to show the man I marry
just how to be my equal;
make sure he will not beat me?

(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Quick Marriage

i) young bride

elegant
awkward
standing silent
in the close by
shadows

the young bride
flirts with her face
in the mirror.

aware
alone
unashamed
yet so amiss

she is tickled
by her fancies
of crass, rich, taste.

hushed beauty
solemnly sensual
she is soft
serene
subliminous

and he enters
to her smiling
as her lips begin
to part.

till the munthani
slips
to the cold terrazo floor
and a breeze
creeps a chill
up her thigh.


ii) young widow

too young
when her husband died,
she mourned
in silent
tears.

too awed
when they spoke in stares,
she wept
unwoken
fears.

unshaken
by unnerving incense,
his corpse
embalmed
her strength.

unbroken
by unceasing comment,
his spirit
invokes
her stealth.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

A Toast to Drunkenness

Your verse is always
"I'm alright".
You never will relent
to simple basic commonsense
to spare us more regret.

Your chant is always
confident.
You never will admit
that sometimes
you are way too drunk
to swerve before you hit.

Your hands are always
much too numb.
They lose all feint control.
They cannot grip
nor hold the wheel.
Your palms are cold
as stone.

Your breath is always
much too foul.
You cannot even smell
the nightmare
you impose on those
whose wheel
may steer to hell.

Your eye is always
much too flushed.
You never will foresee.
The anguish I exonerate
each time you miss a tree.

Your liver now
is much too limp
you have a month to breathe.
The blood they feed you now
in pints,
go toast and drink
disease.

(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Backseat

I remember clearly
sitting in the backseat
watching the road swerve
from side to side
as you steered
and my mother twitched,
praying.

I remember clearly
watching the road lines
move swiftly in circles
from left to right,
as you braked
and my brother flew
sideways.

I remember clearly
dreaming the story
how we nearly
were smashed up,
as you drove
and my terror
despised you.

I remember clearly
sitting now in the frontseat
as my child in the backseat
sits frozen in fear
as her father,
drunk further,
just drives.

(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

New Born Baby

health and wealth
and prosper
baby

all will smile
and toast the
family

hope and hype
and happy
mummy

each will up
and cheer the
daddy

sing and dance
and clap the
bailas

coo and gurgle
stuff the
belly

pour the beer
and fill the
whiskey

some will laugh
and greet the
morn

thrill and spill
and sport the
road

some will crash
and die at
dawn.

(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Posterity

Great-grandmother was
a Miss Ondaatje.
Grandmother's name
was Miss Mercy Hoole.
Mother began
as Miss Navaratnam.
I am a Miss
Rajendran.

Great-grandmother lived
in Colonial Ceylon.
Grandmother moved
to Straits Singapore.
Mother was born
and bred in Malaya.
I am an-other
Malaysian.

Great-grandmother married
a Jaffna Mudaliyar.
Grandmother fell
for a medical officer.
Mother nearly
eloped with a teacher.
I am an unmarried
daughter.

Great-grandmother bore
so many children.
Grandmother bred
four girls and a boy.
Mother carried
a son and a daughter.
I have no child,
nor ever.

Great-grandmother never
knew me.
Grandmother often
spoilt and indulged me.
Mother is
so much a part of me.
I endure in my work,
my posterity.

(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

So mush of me

So mush of me is English.
My dreaded colonial heritage.
From Enid Blyton to Beatrix Potter
my idylls lie distant in Yorkshire.

So mush of me lives Anglo.
My dreaded white inheritance.
From Laura Ashley to Marks & Spencer
my istanas all built in Windsor.

So, mush of me
misplaced.
Really I am Malaysian,
Ceylonese, Tamil,
Anglophile, All.
Mingled by history
not choice.

So, mush of me
misfit.
My outfits all merge
and combine.
From kurungs of kashmere
to kain batik ballgowns,
my palate eats roast beef
with rice.

So mush of me
mixed up,
sejarah
that spans a globe.
From Perth to Papua
Toronto to Trent,
my saudaras
by boat and by flight.

So mush of me is
muddled.
Malaysian, Ceylonese
Unsure.
My anglicised fancies
in tempatan dreams
make mush
in so mush of me.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Miracles

Always water into wine.
Never other way around.
Crushed ice into ice-kacang,
Syrup into leng chee kang,
Bubur into lemang.
Water into wine.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Kitchen Rules for Supper

        The gardener must drink
        from a different cup.
        The servant must eat
        from a different plate.
        The bullock-cart man
        cannot enter the house.
        Why God did you make them
        different?

Man in a veshti
thundu slung over,
barefoot on a cool earth floor,
sambaranee wafts
as the ghee sounds a sizzle.

        The gardener must drink
        The servant must eat

He stoops to light
oil lamps, flickering wicks,
flaming coal stove,
the dhall curry simmers,
chappatis on gridle.

        The bullock-cart man
        The man in the veshti 

Freshly made tairu
slightly sweet salted,
ever-silver serving bowls,
sprinkles of chopped herbs
table laid ready with leaves.

        Why God did you make
        them different?

The guests will arrive.
He’ll wash their sore feet.
Perhaps this will be
his last supper.

Perhaps for this meal
we’ll remember.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Devotions of Difference

temples churches mosques
altars rituals prayers
candles jossticks oil-lamps
songkoks pottus robes
kadis samis priests
thundus purdahs veils
guilty pardon blessing
temples churches mosques


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Community Vows

To love you, for the chronic ways
In which you make me yours.
To hate you, for the poison days
In which you cast me out.
Adore you, for the spectacles
Of colour that you splash.
Resent you, for the obstacles
Of status and finesse.
To marvel that you pioneered
And thrived among the rough.
To shrivel at your arrogance
And piteous, sense of pride.
To ponder all your principles
Of culture, faith and life.
         How much I wish to leave you.
         But am held by a thali that binds.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Community Wedding

Gold borders sparkling

off Kanchipuram silks.
Navaratna pendants,
blood rubies aglow.
Thick gold chains hanging,
diamond laden bangles.
The bride stands and waits
at the door.

Songket Kebaya,
Kelantanese Silver,
Balinese Selendang,
Malaccan Krongsang,
And each of the aunties asks
"Why?"

Carefully pleated veshti
with crisp ironed thundu.
Cream coloured talappa
and bronzed leather sandals.
Nehru collar kurta
shot coloured, refined.
Deep set gold emerald ring.
Groom sits waiting on dais.

Padini blue suit,
Gucci leather shoes,
Issey Miyake tie,
Gianni Versace shirt.
And none of the uncles asks
"Why?"


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Concoctions

I belong

to a community
of only a few.
With only a few
mirrors to bounce off
the colours, tastes, smells,
of my childhood
my home
my history.

As only a few
have created windows
through which I can peer
to see faces, tears,
smiles and scars
of my childhood
my home
my history.

I long for my community
to declare its small strong voice,
adjust, adapt, acclimatise
but never forget,
erase.

...............................


I belong
to a nation
of many,
diversely.
With many a mixture
of sireh and dhalcha
chap fan and laksa
that mixes and blends,
concocts its own recipe
stirs up its own steaming brew.

I belong
to a nation
where many,
diversely,
have forgotten that mixtures,
of sireh and dhalcha
chap fan and laksa
are boring, bland, pallid,
if not for the mixture
that savours the flavour
of many,
made up of a few.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

Rasam Recipe

If I write in Tamil

does it mean then
I have deeper sense -
of what we are
and who we fear
and why we stir
from here?

And if I write Malay
then have I strayed
and lost my roots -
become a curried nationalist
betrayed my race
and pride
as I shift lonely
to the side?

And if I write in English
just because
the taste is mine,
it is my strongest condiment,
I've used it all my life
to spice and flavour piquancy
does this mean I have
right?

does this mean I am
right?


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999