Acknowledgements

My deepest thanks to :

 

Mohan Ambikaipaker for getting me started on the work;

Khadijah Abdullah and Ty Fong for believing in the work;

David Stewart, Makarand Paranjape, Mohan Ambikaipaker and Sumit Mandal for valuable comment on the work;

Janet, Marion, Krishen, San Sooi and all of Five Arts Centre that has inspired the way I work;

Adey, Elizabeth, Fred, Hoy Cheong, Keith, Kung Yu, Lorna, Peter, Quan and other good friends who have encouraged and supported me through the work;

my mother and brother for enabling me to pursue my work.

 

v) fading sketch

Riding threewheeler
along the Galle Road,
hearing the deejays
in accents like ours,
when my thoughts
find your arms wrapped
around me.

I see him strut limb-less
young man on the street
dirt stained, dripping bandages
hang from his feet.
His eyes glazed in anger
roll past the indifference
of traffic filled dust
of a broken metropolis
and femur.

And I recall bailas
on a cabaret dance floor
sensuous surround
in a slow dance of passion,
when once you have grabbed me
and swung round my hips
with your arms still around
and akimbo.

When a naked child straddling
the sharp pavement stones
sits and begs its gaunt
mother for milk
as its father lies crippled
in a stupored surrender
the child keeps on crying
unheard.

Will I see you ever again?
Perhaps.
Will I see them ever again?
Perhaps.
In my mind you are etched,
They are sketches that fade.

       and I read in the news
       of a world with no views
       so few words point to people
       with real lives of their own,
       and I shrink from their worlds
       I pretend unreality
       turning down volumes
       as I feed on the news.


woman in water
the waves flood your breath
and you die
as an unknown
statistic.

your husband and children
no more dead than you.
once a family.
now tangled
in seaweed.

woman in water
the waves flood your breath
and you drift
as an unknown
statistic.

your mother and father
reached out as you cried.
who knows now
if they live
or they die?

amidst bullet trails
you ran for your child
as the wind
swept aside
biting fears.

amongst sharpened blades
you fled for your life
as the darkness
engulfed
stinging tears.

now your thali descends
into reefs of the past
where the burdens
of living
lie still.

and your saree is borne
by the currents that ride
in an ocean
where nothing
is still.

yet, woman in water
lament lies afar.
on the shores
of a distant
relation.

one woman will mourn.
though unknown and unnamed,
you've become
her possession
of grief.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

iv) 10/10

Blue Elephant dance floor
city's hot-shot disco -
Gents allowed in with a fee.
Ladies welcome - yes, for free.

Colombo City Hilton groove
magnetise your traveller -
a white woman eyes a rusty brown man,
a yellow man watches gyrating clove woman.

In sarees and suits they are jiving
hot pants and jeans keep on palming
minis and tights live with jumping
kurtas and salwars in samba.

Your floor is a patchwork of feeling.
From drunken and luscious to lewd.
From reggae rhythms to techno mania,
sweat drips without cultural barrier.



       and I read in the news
       that the bodies of children
       were found on the frontlines
       where gunshots resounded
       and troops knelt and wept by their side



"the rebels fired
more than 10 bombs"
the newsreader barely
startled.

"the troops recovered
bodies totalling
20 young girls,
16 young boys"

"they hurtle the children
like live human bombs -
once they capture or kidnap,
they lure them."

brianwashed battalion
believing in battle
even 10 year olds
die by conscription.

(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

iii) pricey choice

Shopping for gems
amidst batiks and bailas,
seeking out stones
to take home for a setting.
Looking through glass panels,
spotting the difference
between one set that sits
next to others.

Books are my jewels
to choose, pack and carry,
all tell a story
I want to take home.
Fine cut and crafted
in mettles of gold,
I store these as dowries
to tell of my sojourn.



and I read in the news
that voting is crucial
in Jaffna elections
delayed by gunbattles
and wars of deflection.



"The people are used to violence.
So the voters should turn up."
          There will be some disinterested
          because they just want peace."

"The government wants elections.
To show the world it's serious."
          "We aren't going to vote today.
          What if they attack us?"

Jaffna local council
want to be elected
but residents are wounded
when they cast their vote.

Threats have all been posted
- stay away, stay home -
election pamphlets all withheld
in case attacks get worse.

How to tell the difference
between the noble cause
and the violent enemy
filled with vile remorse?


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

ii) candid shots

We pass through the turnstile
and glare of the stubber
who grunts through his moustache
"To Kandy, two platform".
We laugh at his syntax
and smile at the sweepers
in bright orange uniforms
trailing their dustpans.

We board the train pensive
one seat by the window
and watch as the guard waves
his faded dull green.
We chug through the city
where rusting frame carriages
and bullet holed walls
sleep with webs of barbed wire.

Then rumbling through outskirts
we plunge into rice greens
with white plaster stupas
egrets perched on buffaloes.
As bare bodied men
tug and pull at the plough
while the women bent over
plant seedlings.

Then deeper we journey
up into the ranges
where wide open terraces
are traced by tea bushes.
And valleys of orchards
all teeming with pickers
are strapped to their baskets
and colourful headresses.

I stand in the doorway
to catch a wide glimpse
as the rails scuttle past
and the view fades with distance.
I pause for the camera
to capture illusions
of countryside splendour
no close-ups of truth.

       and I read in the news
       a truck bomb destroyed
       the Kandy tooth temple
       and sixteen cursed lives
       all poised for a celebration.



The Prince of Wales
was due to come
to grace the grand occasion
but once the bomb had blown the shrine
the plans were in revision.

The Prince of Wales
was due to see
the festive glow of colour
but once the blast had floored the priests
parades would not be handsome.

The Prince of Wales
was due to say
how pleased he was to be there
but once the 16th century spot
killed 16 people in a shot
the words would not come easy.

(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

i) travel sense

This room where I sleep
close to the waves
in Bambalapitya,
feels like JB,
seems like Malacca,
vestiges of home

where humid heat
and incense mixed
with fresh sea breeze
and spices cooking,
wash through
and lead me
to earthiness.

The food is always carefully cooked
tasted and served, just so;
coconut sambal and puttu for breakfast,
vathal appam for desert at lunch,
homemade kolkotte and mangoes for tea
sothy and strings at dinner.

These are the senses
I carry inside me
wherever my palate
will travel.



       and I read in the news
       of refugees drowned
       in high seas of terror
       from boats overloaded
       with captives of pain.



You left your home
Your kitchen floor
Your bathroom tiles
And sarees.

You took your child
Your travellers cheques
Your personal files
And jewelleries.

You ran as fast
As legs could flow
No time for looking back.
Your heart beat drummed
In dreaded slow
No hollows for regret.

You boarded
In the moonlit dark
No violent eye could see.
Your hope
To reach a safer shore
No thought of death by sea.

(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

v) Salve of Protection

We ran to the doctor’s
for help when they barged
through the door
with their G-strings
and sweat grins.

He’d said if there ever
was trouble with soldiers
to call him -
he’d help us
four sisters.

They stood in their bare feet
tight holding their knives -
looking round
at the rooms
and the pictures.

He strode in
and scolded them
blushing in nakedness
chasing them out
with his voice.

And posted a note
on our door
in his writing
we knew not the words
but they spared us.

Each time we passed through
the front door
on the right
we remembered the man
for his witness.

He had come
to help salve
in a time of destruction
but wounds that cut deep
were imprinted.

We ran to the doctor’s
for help when they barged -
now his family
from Kyoto
still write to us.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999

iv) Appetites Summoned

We sang as we waited
for dinner to beckon -
our appetites summoned
by war-rationed goodies.
Sometimes, who knows how
Mummy brought out the corned beef
a treat in those harsh times -
a currified hash.

Once pale British labourers
knocked soft at our door
bent, asking for food
looking weary from sweat.
And Daddy came rushing
from drying his hair
and said “No, nothing doing.”
This food was for brown skins.

He knew they were testing
to see if we’d help.
And not asking questions
if caught helping white skins
they‘d take us and shoot us
he knew that was that.

We sat without dinner
plates filled with cold curry,
each watching the next house
as pale British labourers
bent, weary, and hungry
crept up their front stairs.

We sang as we waited
for dinner to beckon -
our appetites dampened
by shots from a distance.


(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999