Download - Tamil Women's Poetry: A Current of Contemporary Voices

Tamil woman’s poetry:

a current of contemporary voices

Selected with an introduction by: Kutti Revathi

English Translation by: N Kalyan Raman

Published in

INDIAN LITERATURE Issue 254, November-December 2009

Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi INDIA

TABLE OF CONTENTS Pages

“Of what our written language speaks”, by Kutti Revathi i – vi

Part One: Tamil women poets from India 1 - 20

Part Two: Tamil women poets from Eelam 21 - 57

Notes on Poets and Contributors 58-60

(i)

INTRODUCTION Of what our written language speaks…

Kutti Revathi

Translator N Kalyan Raman and I worked jointly on this anthology towards documenting

the contemporary voice of modern Tamil women’s poetry. When the idea was first mooted by

the poet K. Satchidanandan, I could have scarcely imagined that the task would prove to be so

difficult, challenging and absorbing. To select, from among hundreds of Tamil poets, clear

articulations of the modern Tamil voice was indeed a major challenge. In this effort, I received a

great deal of co-operation from the translator, Kalyan Raman. I wish to express my gratitude to

poet Satchidanandan for selecting me for this prestigious assignment and to the translator,

Kalyan Raman, for his efforts to bring contemporary Tamil poetry to a wider readership through

translation.

Although Tamil women poets have written prolifically over the years, these poems have

been selected giving importance to the politics they advance, bearing in mind the language used

and the manner of its animation. This anthology may bring the reader the voice of women who

combine, in their writing, categories such as modernity, Tamil nationalism or ethnicity, female

gender and the domain of poetry with humanities in general. Modernity has a varied history

specific to the literature of each language. Moreover, with respect to Tamil, the language should

be seen as possessing a modernity that is tied equally to a millennia-old tradition. Therefore,

besides moulting its skin regularly over time, the shape of modern Tamil literature is also one that

evolves through continuously ingesting and assimilating contemporary politics, culture and

societal trends. Only through such a process does the evolution of a language come about.

Tamil women’s poetry

Women’s poetry in Tamil has not only assimilated the Tamil poetic tradition, but has

emerged also as the articulation of an Indian voice. During occasions that demand the

articulation of alternate voices, instead of remaining silent and inactive, it has served as a focal

point for ideological debate. Going beyond mere expression of conventional dissent on societal

issues, it has also mutated into an expression of the politics of such issues. Although, feminist

poetry’s beginnings in all countries are generally on similar lines, its political ascendancy in a

society and transformation into a movement will be a function of the ideological vigour already

prevalent there. On this score, there are several reasons underlying the stiff opposition that has

emerged in Tamilnadu to such political expression. For one, ours is a social space which has

excluded women from any form of sexual dialogue. Another reason is that Tamil women’s poetry

was totally opposed to the extant dominant voice of Tamil nationalism. Just as the body belongs

to man, so do the words that denote the parts thereof, is another reason. So, too, is the exclusion

(ii)

of women from poetry, the finest literary form. And where her entry is permitted, such

permission is granted only on condition that her poetry must subject itself to self-censorship.

We can understand the backdrop to this development by taking into account the criticism

such poetry engendered in our society, the repression it was subjected to and the strata of social

life that it represented. After women’s participation in the age-old Tamil tradition of classical

literature, it was only in the twentieth century that the female voice chooses an overt language of

poesy. I see literary forms like the novel and short story as essentially alien to the poetry form, for

I believe that poetry constitutes a kind of weaponry for a language, an essential articulation of

that society and a form of its activism. Therefore, even in the very adoption by women of poetry

as their literary form of choice, there is a profound politics as well as activism. In a novel or a

short story, it is possible for the author to insert poetry or an imagined reality that does not

represent her own. Poetry, however, mostly demands introspection from the poet. In order to

engage with it, a woman also needs adeptness at her language which has been denied her since

ancient times; she also needs courage.

After participating regularly and continuously in poetry seminars held in the neighbouring

states, I was able to recognize that what set apart Tamil women’s poetry and preserved it was the

politics that it has dared to articulate. In other words, even as western feminism that was thrust

upon India gave licence generally to identify all women poets as feminists, it merely encouraged

opposition to the same social frameworks that it has been opposing: therefore, feminists here

confined themselves to contributing in the struggle for enforcing women’s rights in the public

sphere – as in religion, marriage, family and workplace. But only in Tamilnadu has it been

possible to articulate the subtle forms of politics present in the aforesaid frameworks through

words of poetry. In particular, it has been possible to render in poetic language the politics

enforced on the female body by the age-old repressive structures of the caste system. Moreover,

while not being directly a voice of propaganda, this articulation was also imbued with the

aesthetics of language, literary richness and the formal elegance of poetry. It cannot be construed

merely as an elucidation of what is referred to as “body politics” in western countries. Instead, it

should be seen as a means of making the complex and subtle systems of power active in all of

India a subject for public debate.

Era. Meenakshi arrived during the initial phase of modernism in Tamil women’s poetry.

Though her poetry expressed resistance to the traditional oppression of women, her poems

constituted a new voice in the Tamil milieu. In the world anthology of poetry published in the

80’s, the lone Tamil poem included was Meenakshi’s. As the second phase, we can cite the period

when the poems of Perundevi and Rishi began to be read widely. They wrote poems distilling

poetic language and inherent theme into an experimental form. It may even be said that through

their work, the language of Tamil poetry brought a kind of centrality to the new form. Perundevi

(iii)

and Rishi gained recognition as poets who, while challenging the poetic diction of contemporary

writers of that period, functioned as part of the mainstream without claiming a separate identity.

In the next phase, Tamil women’s poetry was dominated by poets who propounded the politics

of the body. Among these, Sukirtharani, Salma, Malathi Maithri and Kutti Revathi gave

expression in their poems to a voice that had perceived and grasped the repression practised on

the body through religion and caste. Rising like an enormous wave, the impact of their advent led

to much controversy, debate and criticism. These poets described in their poems, with

unimpaired aesthetics and undiminished linguistic richness, body parts and the instances where

these body parts became politicized. Poetry in this phase was besieged by opposition from all

sides – Tamil nationalism, cultural police, media hostility, and even direct attacks from

contemporary male Tamil writers. Even as it created a huge impact on the literary and intellectual

planes, the creative output and contribution of women poets who came later continued this

trend.

In my view, the body politics of our society subjects to question all constructs of that

society; and besides, it is completely divergent from the contours of the body politics being

articulated in foreign countries. To understand, without missing the smallest nuance, the net cast

over women is also a way to tear it apart. Ornamental discourses are only fit for a society that is

steeped in luxury. Through our writing, we discovered that proscribed words, clandestine words

and words denied are the ones that belong to communities of oppressed people. Our mission has

also been to renew the prevalent age-old meanings of such words. It was under these

circumstances that women’s poetry from Eelam emerged as an extension – as also the peak

achievement – of Tamil women’s poetry.

Women’s poetry from Eelam

While doing research for this anthology, I was able to discover that a significant evolution

of Tamil women’s poetry has occurred through poetry from Eelam. As for woman poets from

Eelam, it was through Selvi and Sivaramani that Eelam poetry first made its advent in Tamilnadu.

For very different reasons, both are no more among us. They were not alive even when their

poems were first published as books. Sivaramani killed herself in 1991, at the age of twenty-three.

The final phase of Selvi’s life remains an unsolved riddle. At the time of their appearance in

Tamilnadu, their poems were read as the breath-tones of a people arrived from alien space. The

identity of the Tamil woman from Eelam in those days was itself completely new and served as a

pointer to the lives of the people of Eelam in that era.

Irretrievable times

A peaceful time of morning,

The dawn’s red sky pleases the eye.

(iv)

Even a crow’s cawing sounds sweet.

Through the spread of gardens, long and wide,

Breeze floats in and hugs the body.

Peace everywhere! Sweetness in everything!

Until yesterday,

It remained a peaceful time of morning.

In the dark hour before dawn,

Armoured vehicles thundered and roared.

Voices of despair: “Ayyo! Amma!”

Gardens shook and trembled.

Seeing khaki uniforms all over,

Our men grew frightened.

Youths grabbed and herded

Into the vehicles

Floundered for breath.

Mothers’ weeping

And sisters’ sobbing

Sounded like despair

Of the day breaking.

The crow’s cawing, too, sounded jarring.

Even gentle sounds induced only fear.

Fear everywhere; silence in everything.

The light wind’s caress held no feeling

We forgot to enjoy the morning’s red sky.

Until yesterday,

It had been a peaceful time of morning.

The dread that this poem of Selvi’s had evoked in that period was the articulation of

something unprecedented in the entire history of our language.

Lines from Sivaramani’s “The stress of a night during wartime,” The stress of a night during wartime

Will make adults

Out of our children,

(v)

And from her “Woman scorned,” I am someone who cannot be rejected.

What now?

I am present

As a question

That cannot ever be tossed aside

represent a politics born of daring that shook up the end of the nineties. Though many others

from Eelam came to writing poetry later, the Tamil poetry from Eelam that joined itself to the

politics of women’s writing in Tamilnadu led – by means of the political causes it propounded, its

language, diction and elegance of form – the arena of Tamil women’s poetry towards a new

evolution, transcending in the process the politics of Tamil women’s poetry which had been

enfeebled by a lack of appropriate media outlets to carry it to different strata of society.

This happened, however, in the nineties. Because of the impact they created, the voice in

these poems wove itself into poems then being written in Tamilnadu. Poems from Eelam which

came after the advent of body politics in Tamil poetry continued the feminist articulation

prevalent here and advanced it to the next phase. The works of Faheema Jahan, who writes from

Sri Lanka, and those of exiled poets like Tamilnathy, Simonethi, Thillai and Bhanubharathi have

emerged as political poems. They can be identified as the central voices of the present political

struggle in Eelam, for there are no male creative writers in Eelam today who cast Eelam into a

language of politics to the same degree as these poets. So, Tamil women’s poetry from Eelam of

today surpasses that from Tamilnadu in all aspects: creative vigour, language, theme and

modernity. Today, the only weapon they possess to oppose and fight against the politics of ethnic

oppression they are subjected to is the poetry forged by these women.

While selecting the poems from Eelam, it was impossible to contact the poets from Eelam

because they are scattered in exile the world over. Moreover, there is generally an element of

fright in their encounters with outsiders. For these reasons, it was difficult to get in touch with

them for this anthology. Therefore, poems by Eelam poets have been selected taking into

consideration all anthologies of Eelam poetry published so far. In particular, these poems have

been selected from the following anthologies: “Sollada Seidigal (Unreported News)” (Women’s

Research Circle, Jaffna, 1986); “Selvi Sivaramani Kavidaigal (Poems by Selvi and Sivaramani)”,

(Vidiyal Padippagam, 1996); “Velicham Kavidaigal” (1996), an anthology of selected poems from

Velicham magazine, published by the Arts & Cultural Centre of the LTTE, Jaffna; “Uyirveli” (Love

poems by women, 1999); “Peyal manakkum podhu” (Poems by women poets from Eelam, 2007);

“Iravil salanamatruk karaiyum manidargal (People dissolving silently overnight)” (Kalachuvadu

Padippagam, Nagercoil, 2003); “Maraiyada Marupaadhi (The still-visible other half)” &

(vi)

“Ezhudaadha Un Kavidai (Your unwritten poem)” (Poems by women from Tamil Eelam, 2001),

and Twentieth Century Eelam Poetry (2006). In addition, a few poems have been selected from

anthologies of individual poets who have chosen poetry as the platform for their activism and

have published collections shaped by their ideology, such as Faheema Jahan’s “Oru Kadal

Neerootri” (Panikkudam Padippagam, Chennai, 2007); Anar’s “Enakku Kavidai Mugam”

(Kalachuvadu Padippagam, Nagercoil, 2007); and Tamilnathy’s “Sooriyan thaniththalaiyum pagal”

(Panikkudam Padippagam, Chennai, 2007). Journals such as Kaalam, Urakkappesu, Suvadugal, Exile,

Iniyum Sool Kol and Matrubhoomi (Malayalam) have also been kept in mind while selecting poems

for this anthology. After the Internet revolution, most poets from Eelam choose that medium as

their publishing platform and feature their work in the web magazine, Udaru

(http://www.udaru.com), which has also been a source of poems included herein.

The voice of Eelam women’s poetry remains pluralist in nature. These poets have never

flinched from articulating a politics that others have refused to broach, subtly and with skilled use

of language. In this anthology, we have been able to create a document of this pluralist identity:

considered for inclusion here are poets who were once fighters in the liberation movement;

people who still live in that country, experiencing the scorching heat of war; poets from

Maliayagam, the central highlands of Sri Lanka; and people who are living in exile in alien

countries, writing poetry. Not only them, there are poets here, like Faheema Jahan and Anar,

who, being of Islamic faith, could not therefore lay claim to the Tamil identity. Even so, these

poets never foreground political partisanship or emotional politics in their poems. Instead, they

highlight the need for a normal life and the losses suffered in their quest for such normalcy.

The poems in this anthology by women poets from Eelam illuminate the universe of their

lives from the vantage of diverse moments: painful reminders; images inured to the ‘normalcy’ of

death; poems in which their illusions and dreams expand into a country; and, in particular, the

world bequeathed to their children by that land. They transport us to that land, raising questions

that cannot ever be tossed aside or ignored. If this anthology makes familiar to a reader hailing

from other geographical regions of India, the sun and death-stench offered by the land of Eelam,

it is not necessarily by design. Moreover, during the course of your reading, you will surely hear,

by means of a random line somewhere in these pages, the voice of that island-country that would

doubtless seem to you like the voice of a forsaken sister who, parted from us and quite alone,

fights on in that distant land.

Translated from the Tamil by N Kalyan Raman

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PART ONE:

TAMIL WOMEN POETS FROM INDIA

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Part One: Tamil women poets from India

List of Poems

S. No Title Author Pages

1. The Fort and the Temple Era. Meenakshi 3

2. A dream of reality Malati (Satara) 4

3. Life Sport Che. Brinda 5

4. Killing Field Krushangini 6

5. Three poems Perundevi 7

6. Far away Rishi 9

7. Untitled S. Sugandhi

Subramanian

11

8. Today’s show Uma Maheshwari 12

9. Untitled Thendral 13

10. A trustworthy few… Ilampirai 15

11. The smile of aeons Sukirtharani 16

12. One evening and another Salma 17

13. Bringing the sea home Malati Maithri 19

14. The demons that afflict us Kutti Revathi 20

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The Fortress and the Temple Era. Meenakshi

This fortress, built

by a king, is today

but a dream’s dark shadow

on the ground.

His love gift and palace

are now merely

ragged hives.

In the broken stone,

parched grass,

thorn bush cover and

in the ashen white

of burnt bamboo,

beauty in ruins.

A snake’s moulted skin

in the dance hall.

is this cold wind

the tinkling of anklets?

At the edge of the pathway

to the headless spire,

in the water channel

down the stone steps,

a nagalinga* petal’s coolness:

transcending Time’s

capers, Sivam has

enshrined himself!

* Flower of cannonball tree, with petals shaped like a snake with its hood raised and stamen in the form of a lingam, incarnation of Lord Shiva

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A dream of reality Malathi (Satara)

I had bought a house in my dream:

second house on a narrow

bustling street, with a pretty square

yard in front for kolams.

The house was somewhat old,

the walls were sturdy. There were

plenty of objects in the attic,

along with secrets that troubled

you always and mulberry moths.

A staircase ended in a loft:

open to sky, retriever of spring.

There were defects in the toilets.

I remember I had bought it

after selling the string of black beads

I’d been seeing very often in my dreams,

along with a drop of my youthfulness.

I had wanted very much

to bring amma and show her.

I don’t recall when I had

the defects in the house repaired,

but one day i gave it

on rent to a woman.

After forgetting entirely

to collect the rent,

I asked her last night in my dream.

my husband collected it

without fail every month,

said the woman.

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Life Sport Che. Brinda

This is

a hide-and-seek game

that can cause fatalities.

You and i are

the only players.

You are as close to me

as you are far away.

You are my everything;

you also mean nothing to me.

Whenever you solicit

my love as speech,

a wordless, tongue-tied and

unbearable silence is my reply.

And my wait is tinged

with mild scheming,

the way a lizard hunts its prey,

to make your whole attention

shift towards me.

I am a cruel beast.

Believe it or not,

my incisors and talons

are made of love.

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Killing Field Krushangini

Tall trees, cut down and stacked.

Smeared along the trunks

like scales on a snake and

perching still as dullards,

these butterflies are full of life.

Logs dragged in by a machine are planed;

then shaved down to a pile of sawdust.

Another arm pulps the pile

along with all the smeared lives,

spreads the pulp to dry, joins and presses

into a sheet, then ejects the paper.

Laden with unrecorded murders,

the square is spat out ‘dazzling’,

spotless and white!

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Three poems Perundevi

1. Loneliness that clings

Loneliness is a rivulet.

A stunned droplet of water, trapped

in the vortex of a whirlpool,

will reach the riverbed and rise again:

water’s condition never kills water,

in accordance with its truth.

Loneliness never kills the lonesome,

for a lone woman is loneliness incarnate

for at least one split second.

°

The river’s sustenance:

a piece of the moon tossed in by the sky.

The river is its own begging bowl.

°

On either bank of the rivulet,

whether in the company of another

or with none, the consolation

of passing brief intervals of time:

rare bathing ghats.

°

The cry of the cicada is loneliness –

will cling to anyone who hears it.

°

Without raising her eyelids,

a woman paddles her feet

in the water. She is special:

the river won’t drink her up.

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°

As a throng flows the river.

2. Betrayal

From yeaning in vain for sleep

to turn into a dreamless forest,

sleep, too, was lost entirely.

As the dark iris popped out and ran

to watch another’s dream,

vision, or something like it,

began to move adrift

like a white cloud above

the forest denuded of trees.

3. Immutable

Crimson as the sun moves northward,

white on its journey south –

our lord in Thakkolam.*

What colour is our Goddess?

Of the kindness that wed her

and led her to bloom.

* In the Shiva temple in Thakkolam, a village near the Andhra Pradesh border, the Shiva deity changes colour depending on the direction of movement of the sun between summer and winter solstices

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A long way

Rishi

A door-frame that blocks you

when the head is raised even slightly.

The room, a dark cavern where

voices stand in for faces.

A small village, made for

bonsai feet; and a house where

a country has become the world.

Straying from my endless trudging

around the oil-press, as i climbed

onto the front pyol to breathe in

the sun, moon, or perhaps the faint

breeze under the crescent moon,

that halo of light appeared

on the far horizon.

All the melodies sung by that light

seemed sculpted by a chisel.

It was hard to say if it was joy

or mournful ululation or mating call

or frenzied trumpeting or a unity

of all these or a plurality even

as that distant voice kept

sounding in my ears.

I began to move away from myself

like a lemming behind the pied piper.

As the halo, blazing,

unattainable even in my dreams,

raced faster and faster towards the horizon,

and as i perspired with every breath,

my legs turning to water as they tried to retreat,

my unquenchable, thirsty heart

leapt forward at a furious pace.

On that galloping morning,

the loner’s eyes smiled

tactfully and tenderly

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from the blaze.

As he, unable even to melt,

turns into a black figurine, the one

who had grabbed his hand and revived him

could appear as a rainbow.

The crying heart still cries:

‘Don’t descend without climbing up

on feet that are both your own.’

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Untitled S. Sugandhi Subramanian

The trail of shapes is indeed

somewhat complex, the way

a random image is painted

from the colours chosen.

Though the end is uncertain,

for some reason

the mind is hankering

tirelessly for something

When the self is revealed cruelly

in sporadic visions of the truth,

i feel paralyzed,

robbed of all sensation.

Even so,

along with the trees and the sky

that stretches and sprawls before me,

I shall live on, counting

the days that dawn solely for my sake,

alone and on my own trail.

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Today’s Show Uma Maheshwari

Tonight, too, let us perform

on our bed, boiling over

with unmet desires,

today’s unaccounted show, without

any departures from screen conventions.

Mistaking the easy pathway you had built

to be a royal boulevard, you ascertain

the final halt as your moment of triumph.

We can never reach

that netherworld jungle of primitive ardour,

the lone flower at the zenith

blooming beyond the bushes,

through quagmires camouflaged

with adjustments, subterfuges,

customs and compromises.

There is nothing more to be done, beyond

your falling asleep instantly with your back turned,

the cold floor, the wall as refuge, and

my heart’s torments, limp as a curled up cat.

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Untitled Thendral

*

Flowers carry

whole forests

within themselves:

as a silent bud,

winter;

at the centre

of an open petal

whispering of nectar,

season of rain;

parching all

colour, summer;

then, when

the petals are shed,

one by one,

autumn.

This,

the forest that dwells

inside a lone flower.

*

Quite needlessly,

this ant is

crawling across

a page of my book;

even if only

at the margin,

it’s as annoying

as errant letters moving

across the page.

I haven’t moved

to the next page yet,

but this ant has,

as if of dire need.

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Doesn’t seem so innocent either,

to warrant sympathy.

What can I do?

Some things are

done without

forethought.

Its head is now sticky

as a dented

printing error.

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A trustworthy few… Ilampirai

To the portia buds

I wailed about

my choking agonies.

As they bloomed and spread,

I heard and was moved

by their soothing words.

I told the crow perched

on the antenna of my woes.

It cawed…and flew away,

sharing in my grief.

I confessed, looking

into the cat’s marble eye.

‘I’m here for you.’

Tail grazing my arm,

it drew near and sat close.

I dropped

the hibiscus i was wearing

in the river’s water.

Making it dash against

my feet, the river stopped

the flower.

‘Pick it up and dry your eyes.’

I cried my heart out

to the room, replete with

memories…and the wind.

It made me write poetry.

I might have left it that,

without confiding in you…

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The Smile of Aeons Sukirtharani

Garland of kuvalai* with its petals

intact draped across the chest, and

the white smoke of frankincense

rises from the hair.

Broad shoulders adorned

with drawings of sugarcane and vine

glitter from a coat of sandal paste.

Gentle tooth marks sink

into a high, nubile breast.

She feeds him, mixing

white rice in the golden bowl.

Two children play in the courtyard

paved with polished black stone.

Lust spent, a man is

walking in from afar

with ruined grace.

Once near, he lays

a firm hand on the casuarina gate,

and searches with his eyes.

Her feet, bereft of

anklets, mock his need.

As her twin breasts shudder,

there flashes, on her lips,

the smile of aeons.

*Kuvalai: a blue flower that opens only at night

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One evening and another Salma

1.

Another evening

slips withered

into the crevice of loneliness

Legs too weak

to scale the walls

walk around in the dark

of the inner chambers.

In the heat of breaths

exhaled by the room’s

neat arrangements rises

the pungent odour of sulphur.

There is no second opinion

on the futility of the attempt

to excavate and thaw

dreams long frozen.

There could be species

in this universe that live

in pleasure, subsisting only on

their prey and conjugal courtesies.

The succession of tense nights

and the child’s restless whines

will turn into

a source of mockery about me.

2.

This existence

is complicated

like the life of a cat

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that hides in the kitchen.

A thick layer of cream has formed

on the tea waiting to be drunk.

its burnt smell is hounding me.

In the drawing rooms

full of human bustle,

there’s no one with whom

i might strike an acquaintance.

Solitude in the bathroom

creates fear, stemming from

revulsion over nakedness.

Houses erected inside cages

swell their hustle and bustle

solely to frighten me

In the gardens raised

within walls, there’s no shade

in which to sit and rest.

Nor is privacy ensured

by the open spaces

of the terrace upstairs.

There’s no seat on which

to sit comfortably,

dangling one’s feet.

If my child

loaned me

her cradle,

sleep might become possible.

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Bringing the sea home Malathi Maithri

By means of its traces, the sea

is walking about in this house:

A child’s unwashed dress

hanging on the clothesline,

reeking of the ocean’s smell;

a sand pile moved away to a corner;

conch-shells that rattle suddenly

while you’re looking for something.

Like the sand that clings to your fingers

when you put a hand inside your pocket,

a painter’s unwashed bowls of pigments,

the sea stays back with everyone.

The house sways amidst the waves –

like a rowboat in anchor.

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The demons that afflict us Kutti Revathi

Sister...like potters, let’s fashion

many more breasts now,

when breasts brought to life by stoning

and at knife-point are also being consumed.

There are no fences to protect these,

now the world’s newest food grains.

Why are vultures engaged

in the plunder of grain?

Eating the sun, enjoying and breathing in

the open space, the old woman’s breasts

hang down like demons that afflict her,

pushing against her chest.

Those demons, too, are but boundary maps

of a dried up history. So, sister,

we shall not turn breasts that once were

water ponds to quench our thirst

into vessels for unending agony.

We’ll turn them into stone someday

and fling them away using slings.

We’ll roam about, at least with a lone breast,

carrying the weight of our sun.

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PART TWO:

TAMIL WOMEN POETS FROM EELAM

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Part Two: Tamil women poets from Eelam

List of Poems

S. No Title Author Pages

1. Poem Nila 23

2. A rain-sketch Salani 24

3. Substance Mythili 25

4. A string of memories Bamini 26

5. Raining stars Meera Balaganesan 28

6. The stress of a night during wartime Sivaramani 29

7. Forenoon, when my youngsters nap Tamilnathy 31

8, A few additional blood-notes Anar 33

9. The death of a butterfly Simonethi 34

10. The Mannamperis Aazhiyaal 36

11. The ant and the blaze Banubarathi 38

12. Breasts hung upside down Thillai 39

13. Reality Naamagal 40

14. Again, another dawn Premini Sundaralingam

42

15. Irredeemable times Selvi 43

16. In the dark Banubarathi 44

17. The sun Faheema Jahan 45

18. A near-illegible memory Thillai 47

19. The Shadow Penniya 49

20. Done for by war Paamathi 50

21. In scorched earth, my root shall spread

Sudhamathi 52

22. Nothing shall make her yield Malaimagal 54

23. I was there again Mallika 55

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Poem Nila

Conceived

out of the blue,

making its presence felt

now and again through

mild pangs of pain

as it abrades gently from

inside the heart-womb.

Some nights, when sleep has

spurned me and only

memories have blossomed

to keep me company,

it smiles gently

from a blank white sheet’s

wide expanse:

my darling child,

a poem.

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A rain-sketch Calani

The sky has let the fine particles of rain

spread on every one of its patches.

I face the cold pervading

the air with the sound

of boots scraping and moving on

in the distance—like a mendicant.

Now the rain begins to touch

the edges of my mirror.

Once too lazy to break

and throw away the rain’s frames,

now i let myself spread gradually

over its whole expanse.

After releasing me from

the shards of time, the mirror

loses me to the rain.

Its traces turn

into lines…forming a shape

…that becomes you…a rain-sketch

Arms outstretched, your smile

spills down with the rain – now

there’s no rain across

the whole mirror; it’s you.

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Substance Mythili

The long, sultry night

hangs heavy, making

insects groan under the strain.

On the weak flutter of a breeze

arrives the faint blare

of a neighbour’s radio.

In the heavy grip

of a pair of hands,

the body is crushed:

pressed down,

sweat pouring out; and

strained by rough

caresses. Even the kissing

is intense, like the way

he scribbles with his pen

on empty sheets; severely combs

his hair with his personal brush; or

carefully handles the razor

while shaving his beard.

All done, he sleeps

peacefully beside me.

My love and tenderness,

all the gentle, soothing

emotions through all these days,

now drained in the face

of a hard, swollen penis,

lie spilt and congealed

on the floor below.

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A string of memories… Bamini

Hills stretch endlessly

on the far horizon

under a blanket of white snow.

Flowers mark

the onset of summer

with ornamental patterns.

The midnight sun, even as it

hounds the long night,

halts to watch the fun.

Breakers shatter the peace

of the bottomless ocean

as they seek the shoreline;

from its secret hideout,

a crimson sun eavesdrops

on their elegant banter

with the sandy beach.

The night rolls

the red ball to a perplexed

state, before locking it up

to commence its reign.

Shorn of its colours,

amber and green,

the kingdom of plants

is in mourning

over a friend’s departure.

Clasped by the night,

white snowflakes

string patterns

lavishly on the ground.

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The white moon strolls

in a street pageant

in the company

of silver nuggets.

I had to leave behind

the islands off our shores,

endowed all at once

with these many splendours.

It was in the capital,

lost to nature and

overrun by machines,

that i was forced

to squander my days.

To what purpose…?

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Raining Stars Meera Balaganesan

It was drizzling.

A little boy sat

gazing at the sky.

Droplets from the drizzle

sprayed down on him.

The sun began to fade away.

Except for the boy,

everyone stayed

in their respective homes.

He remained gazing at the sky

as if he’d never, ever

set eyes on it before.

Suddenly,

something fell on his head.

He screamed in pain –

for a rain of stars was

pouring down on him.

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The stress of a night during wartime Sivaramani

The stress of a night during wartime

will make adults

out of our children.

Because of

every blood-soaked, faceless human corpse

that’s hurled across

the passage of their mornings

lovely as a tiny sparrow’s

and the smashed ramparts falling

on their lively laughter,

our little boys have

ceased to be little boys.

The report of a lone gun

on a star-lit night,

smashing the silence and exploding,

reduced to naught

the meaning of all children’s stories.

And in the brief daytime remaining,

they forgot how to make chariots

from thorn apple seeds

or to play hopscotch.

To shut the wicket gate before nightfall,

to recognize any unusual barking of the dogs,

to refrain from asking questions

and to remain silent when

the question had no reply –

later, in herd-like fashion,

they learnt it all.

Wantonly ripping out a moth’s wings

and turning staves and twigs into guns

to kill a friend, thinking of him as the enemy,

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became our children’s sport.

Amidst the stress of a night during wartime,

our children had

turned into “adults.”

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Forenoon, when my youngsters nap Tamilnathi

Chennai.

10:30 am.

As the sun’s rays climb, dappled

with swirling golden motes,

these boys in their twenties

are fast asleep.

At first, I had only wanted

rudely to snap and throw away

the strand joining their dreams

together, raising my voice to sound

like a vessel clattering

noisily to the floor.

The younger one lying prone,

dribble streaking a corner

of his mouth, is made

of many colours: as he utters

the name of his beloved, madhula,

his eyes bloom on a bed of deep scarlet.

We found the portia trees –

beside the spot where

the angel chilled by cauldrons

lay buried – teeming with yellow flowers.

“Emerald,” he called the sea he had

sighted on his passage here by boat.

“Blood,” he whispered later, diffidently.

Evenings, when love tossed the breakers in,

I saw them both – he with Darkness –

always seated together on a stone bench

at the edge of the shoreline.

The other one, though, having lost his way

in a foreign country, wanders aimlessly,

carrying wherever he goes a land

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replete with fertile fields, kingfishers

and eddying surges of water in streams.

The boy who got here last month

is adept at silences.

As he confided, “They kicked us, akka,”

his fingers trembled

like leaves in the rain.

In conversation, he hurried past

the moment when he had panicked

and torn off a bit of flesh

still stuck to his body.

But the girl who was brought here

with me possesses a heart

as soft as the hairs on the underbelly

of a beloved cat.

In front of a fire

which incinerates the model papers

of tests she could not take,

she daily sings dirges for her lost life.

Near the beach in Thiruvanmiyur,

the breakers talk about

children uprooted from homes

blessed with neem trees and koels.

I now have five children

who are still alive,

a few memories and some cash.

Everyone is talking about it:

there is a war on in Sri Lanka.

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A few additional blood-notes Anar

Though used to seeing blood

regularly every month,

I am still shocked and flustered

when my child runs to me howling

with a slashed finger.

As though I am seeing it now for the first time,

this blood, expressing helplessness,

craves my compassion – and distress.

Blood from a raped woman, though,

might grow cold and drip

like the revolting blood

from a dead wasp’s carcass; or flow

in the sticky, moist colour of her life.

Blood pours

from the body of a murdered child -

quite silently,

quite innocently.

Those who shed the most blood

and those who caused the most

bloodshed on the battlefield

have been honoured by our leaders,

promoted to high positions.

Feelings of the supplicant human soul

under intense punishment

have hurled themselves and shattered

on the blood-stained walls

of torture camps.

The blood scent of vengeance,

the blood stench of predation,

the same blood that congeals on the crazed streets,

the same blood that has seeped and dried on the walls of mausoleums—

as death’s indelible traces,

they stalk me endlessly.

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Death of a Butterfly Simonethi

Today I saw a column

of ants dragging along

the carcass of a butterfly.

With its ruined green and black

wings, it remained beautiful

even in death.

Earlier – as it flitted about,

fluttering its wings – it must have

looked even more delightful.

God knows whose dear child it was –

now these ants marched in a procession,

dragging its fragile wings.

People who’d known it

earlier said:

it had clear ideas

and a mighty heart;

it had once escaped even the clutches

of vultures racing across the white sky;

it had flown away once, eluding

a lizard’s tongue by a hair’s breadth –

there were many such tales.

They somehow captured and dragged away

a creature so clever.

They crushed it, ripping out its wings;

killed it, stomping on its brains with shoe-clad feet;

slammed its rib cage a thousand times with clubs;

reduced it to an orphan’s corpse lying by the road.

Once dead, it was captured by the ants.

Drooling spittle from the mouth,

the ants investigated its history;

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split again and again

to fight among themselves

over who should eat it first,

only to unite later.

This was how that lovely butterfly which was

dragged along came to be eaten by the ants.

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The Mannamperis

Aazhiyaal

I’ve spotted it

many a morning –

beside roadside fences,

in the open-air markets

set up at road-junctions,

and often during my travels.

Dog, bear, wolf

vulture, cat, bull –

it assumes many guises.

It lingers

near the telegraph pole,

a hind leg raised,

gazing at me.

It must be many days since

that animal last slept.

Its eyes revealed those

Of an unfamiliar beast.

Their desert hunger

Made me aware

Of an alien language within me.

Sensing that it must be

the harsh language understood

by Mannamperi, the beauty,

and her comrade, Koneshwari,

I strode past hurriedly.

While I slept that night, haunted

by the day’s fruitless travels

and pent-up feelings,

I too understood the same –

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the very same – language that had been

thrust deep into both girls.

My husband’s lying beside me now,

his breath relaxed and cool.

• Mannamperri (22): Participated in the Janata Vimukthi Perumana uprising of 1971. Led the women’s

division. On April 16, 1971 she was captured by the military, subjected to rape and then killed.

• Koneshwari (33): Belonged to Colony No. 1 of Ambarai Central Camp. On May 17, 1997, the army visited

her home, where they raped her and then exploded a grenade thrust in her vagina before leaving.

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The ant and the blaze Banubarathi

After what the dogs and jackals

carried away and what

the evil spirits took away,

a few bits of bone

and some embers

were left on the ground.

Let us bury them in

the Indian Ocean, some declared.

Let us bury them deep

inside the earth

for the archeologists,

suggested many others.

I said:

let us safeguard them till

we hand them over

to the next generation.

Now

these few

and those many others

expressed their wish to bury me.

One thing, at least, was clear:

to bury

something

somewhere

was all they knew.

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Breasts hung upside down Thillai

From a nail on my body, they strung up

nourishing breasts, along with

several hundreds of vaginas.

Eyes brimming with life,

the women of my country

shut their nostrils and inhaled

the ocean leapt across

by three generations.

Then they rinsed and washed

clothes and bodies on which

the blood had dried.

Women of all ages reported

the names of their husbands

at the fenced-in workshop,

receiving white garments in return.

Even this morning, they had strung up

On me the breasts and vaginas

Of yet another thirty-three thousand women.

Where are you going, I asked them.

To draw white garments from the camp

at the village border, they said.

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Reality Naamagal

It transpired

in only a second,

perhaps even less;

anticipated by none.

Those who were

crossing that junction;

those who sat

inside the tea stall; and

those who had queued up

to buy kerosene –

past them all and right

in front of the boy,

the explosion went off.

No planes overhead:

only a shell, then.

He rose

once in the air

before crashing

to the ground.

he made no sound;

he must have died

before he could think

of screaming. In the noise

of the explosion, his screams

might have gone unheard too –

can’t say anything for certain.

People

moved away. Suddenly,

even the song

from the radio

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in the tea stall

had ceased.

In the empty, deserted

street, he was lying

all alone.

A severed arm lay

on the far side of the road

with its fingers extended,

as if accusing someone.

Only a few minutes later—

An ambulance arrived,

grabbed everything,

sped away. As debris,

there remained a little

of his blood, one or two

spokes from a bicycle’s wheel,

some fragments of the exploded

shell – that was all.

Vehicles hurried past, erasing

even those remnants

from the street.

On the road,

there is nothing left now;

everything is as before.

The kerosene queue

has grown longer.

In the tea stall, too,

a new song has commenced.

People are hurrying forward

as if nothing ever happened.

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Again, another dawn

Premini Sundaralingam

The unsightly fangs

of cruel vehicles

scoured every inch

of the dark land.

On the slopes of Planet Earth,

yet again

a spurt of blood.

Only the old man

Chinnappu’s petty shop

lay crumbled

to the ground.

The banyan, shooting up

from a crack on the well’s parapet

had shed its leaves, too,

to wither and die.

On the back of the reeds

lying on fallow land,

memory’s traces

of that brutal imprint.

Plantain trees, pregnant

with bunches of fruit,

lay face down.

Their offspring, throwing up

shoots, stood keenly upright.

The very young fighter’s

smiling face showed

on a small piece of stone

on the broken ramparts.

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A morning

where all sound had ceased

dawned slowly –

yet again.

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Irretrievable times Selvi

A peaceful time of morning:

the dawn’s red sky pleases the eye.

Even a crow’s cawing sounds sweet.

Through the spread of gardens, long and wide,

breeze floats in and hugs the body.

Peace everywhere! Sweetness in everything!

Until yesterday,

it had remained a peaceful time of morning.

In the dark hour before dawn,

armoured vehicles thundered and roared.

Voices of despair: “Ayyo! Amma!”

Gardens shook and trembled.

Seeing khaki uniforms all over,

our men grew frightened.

Youths grabbed and herded

into the vehicles

struggled to breathe.

Mothers’ weeping

and sisters’ sobbing

sounded like despair

of the day breaking.

The crow’s cawing, too, sounded jarring.

Even gentle sounds induced only fear.

Fear everywhere; silence in everything.

The light wind’s caress held no feeling.

We forgot to enjoy the morning’s red sky.

Until yesterday,

it had been a peaceful time of morning.

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In the dark Banubarathi

Something must’ve gone

amiss last night.

Today’s dawn and morning

lay inert

like a corpse,

bereft even of death’s whimper.

A frosty wind came bearing

the whiff of fat melting

over a fire and

sprinkled it on the streets.

It’s not daybreak yet,

it’s not daybreak yet –

cawed—no, wailed—one or two

stray crows, through the leaves

of a shade-grown tree.

On the ground

beneath the shade-grown tree,

neem seeds plant

their fledgling roots

firmly and look up

at the top of the tree to ask

the sunlight scattering

itself through its branches:

“When will the day break?’

The crows on the highest branches

keep up their senseless refrain:

the day has not dawned yet.

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The Sun Faheema Jahan

The sun is descending

peremptorily in the space

left vacant by a tree that’s been

cut down and carted away.

A random shadow relocates

the aged animal – seated

restfully on the ground,

gently working its jaws –

in one direction every

morning; and in another,

in the evening.

The sun, which leads

the birds of autumn

from one country to another,

brings them back, careful

not to throw in disarray

the navigation charts for the trip

the sky has safely preserved.

The sun, which waits hesitantly

outside palace gates,

returns in high dudgeon

to the courtyards of the poor.

The daughter, orphaned in her motherland,

travels in search of a sanctuary, while a different

strain of sunlight, given to hounding

shadows, follows behind her.

With an uneasy heart, the sun

passes this island which will

never run dry of tears,

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sucking up the moisture and

leaving the blood stains be.

After sundown, that sprawling

jungle begins, its hair

untied and loose, to roam

the streets all over, taking along

all the animals in hiding until then.

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A near-illegible memory Thillai

Laments over a life stranded

on the other side of the river

dangled like droplets

along the jaw line.

No sooner than they reached,

in hazy rendering, the town’s ears,

the tension in the air was eased.

Suffering the bedlam of a human head

lying on the road which cut

across the paddy field, lined

on either side by coconut trees;

the soreness of a cheek dented

by the impress of fingers; and

the choking of breath from

battered lungs and lower ribs,

a voice trembled

and trembled before

it collapsed.

They…

snatched the floor on which we sat,

suspended it in mid-air, and

dredging our ponds and lakes,

dumped garbage in the craters…

The trash burned, reeking

of charred firewood and smoke,

through which wafted

the rank odour of their lives.

More and more hair congealed

inside pools of blood, reaching,

finally, the tip of my tongue.

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My thirst subsided

the next instant,

Turning quickly to ash.

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The Shadow Penniya

Letting memories

remain where they lie,

the shadow rises,

moves on.

Down all the avenues

where the shadow roams,

the stench of memories

trails the shadow

like a memory of death.

Memories last longer

in the latrine at home

and on bedsheets.

Inside the dark blanket

of perishable time,

memory, innocent

even of the shadow,

weeps constantly.

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Done for by war Paamathi

On all the lands that you and I

must traverse from tomorrow,

only our national flag will remain.

With trash heaps over spots where

babies and thistles have been buried

together, my country has become

a jungle of corpses.

Is it in the eyes of that crazed dog,

battened on human flesh, that i must

look for my comrades’ nationalist ferour?

Is it among thousands

of these tombstones that i must

celebrate my freedom?

Grant reprieve.

Let one human survive at least.

Grant reprieve also to a blood-filled pen

so that it may write of my land ruined by war

to bring us awareness of human love.

On flowers that bloomed this morning, their pollens,

I must write of bloody sorrows scabbed over

in the night; and of blind men crazed with lust

for state power and lethal arms.

It’s time for a new world

to be born. We need

a community where all arms have been interred

and death sentences have surpassed murders;

which propounds only that equality

which is full of human decency

and innocent of racial difference—

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such a world must arise.

How were we done for in this war?

What did we lose?

What did we gain?

On the walls lining our streets,

we must set down

the history of these heinous men.

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In scorched earth, my root will spread Sudhamathi

I remember still – that

these people asleep like orphans

under the tree’s canopy

once owned a beautiful home.

Yes, I do still remember

those full moon nights

when all our kin had gathered

in the moon-lit courtyard,

recounting stories, our hearts filled with joy.

On a morning when shoe-flowers bloomed,

wide-eyed and radiant, we shared bonds

with the koels cavorting in our village

and the butterflies fluttering their wings

all over the fecund green fields.

Our roots kept growing

in the untainted air,

in the soil nurtured by dreams:

we were a country intact.

“O spring, fled so remote now from us!

O life, which can never be shaped by words!”

From behind a peace rendered into a graveyard’s silence,

resounds my lone, powerful voice.

Tongues of flame have devoured

the shady spots that gave us

peace, along with sanctuaries.

How had the splendour of this land,

alive beneath our childhood memories,

been disfigured so? – it abrades

our memories like a festering wound.

The plaintive song emerging

from our vocal chords echoes

on the walls of our ruined city; crawls

across fields where ears of ripe grain

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have been burnt to ash; and cuts through

streets of red earth marked

by our footprints and by small,

thatched huts covered in shade.

I shall sing loudly,

holding

my rifle aloft …

for as long as my blood’s

pulse-beat lasts…

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Nothing shall make her yield

Malaimagal

The rain came down

in sheets, as if

the sky had been rent asunder.

Engulfing the levee, too,

it moved forward in giant strides.

A girl was darning a pair

of pants, torn and worn out

from sessions of hard training.

Threading a needle, she said

softly: the sky, too, is in tatters.

As soon as i am done

with these, i’ll also

sew up and mend that tear.

Holding up the barn’s roof –

near collapse with the ground

sodden and the poles damp –

the next one murmured:

poor people of our land –

they’ll be drenched, all of them.

Rain-soaked canvas beret

weighing heavily

on her head, body drenched

along with her weapon,

teeth chattering in the cold,

that brave woman staring askance

from behind a tree’s cover

at the enemy’s camp hasn’t

budged an inch. She shall never

budge even if, in addition

to the torrents of rain,

enemy forces inundate her land…

She will triumph.

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I was there again Mallika

Indeed, everything was fine…

Even better than in the sweet old days:

no more clashes

over land and circumstance.

People lived there happily,

in their own land.

“Yes, they have done it all right.”

They have stopped the war.

“Enough, enough of this deadly war,”

so indeed have they averred.

Jaffna, too, was normal, they said,

I could travel there again.

The Jaffna Goddess

plied as usual.

No congestion; no queues, either:

I could find myself

a seat near the window.

The trip was sweet even in the heat.

Everywhere I turned looked fine indeed.

After getting down, I felt

that everything belonged to me.

See,

what a vast difference

this peace (cease-fire) can make!

When everything becomes easy,

when all is within a hand’s reach,

isn’t it like heaven on earth?

No division of castes and religions.

With plenty of food available to eat,

there is no hunger, grief or disease.

As it rains heavily all the time,

there is no sadness --

no sadness in farmers’ hearts.

There is no shortage of onions,

chillies or any type of vegetable.

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None of these are taxed, either.

I went on a trip to the ruined city.

I saw many temples on the way.

Who said there was a war in this fair land?

Everything shone with customary beauty.

At the gates of the Jaffna Library,

I greeted Reverend Father Long.

“Nothing here has been burned down,”

said the priest, his head erect.

I then went to Veerasingam Hall.

They had rebuilt it so that

it could never be demolished again.

At a meeting of women in the hall that day,

I was glad to meet so many friends.

Fatima was there – with

Ziddi and Naeema, too.

“We are back again, in our own land,”

said Sakeema, a smile playing on her lips.

Santhini was glad to see me

“How are the women faring?” I asked.

“It’s a fortunate time for us all,” she said.

“We are respected as women.

That should make us proud, right?’

She loudly declared.

Selvi was busy with arrangements for the meeting.

Sivaramani was to read a poem of hers.

“When you see women being granted

equality, honour and compassion,

along their own identity,

there’s such happiness in our hearts!”

A voice echoed my own thoughts.

I turned:

Rajini stood there,

Dazzling as ever in her radiance.

My gladness overflowing,

I couldn’t even shout.

I woke up:

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What I had seen was but a dream.

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Notes of women poets from Tamilnadu

Era. Meenakshi – A resident of Auroville in Pondicherry, she is active in several fields such as rural development, social work, teaching and translation.

Malati (Satara) – Imbued with the intense possibilities of language, her poetry represents a serious articulation of feminism, She passed away several years ago.

Che. Brinda – A poet who gives centrality to women in the life of the middle class, she never fails to document the aesthetics of that life.

Krushangini – Her poems are animated by aspects of the visual arts. She lives in Chennai.

Perundevi – A poet who has continuously experimented with the language of poetry, she too has contributed from the initial phase of modern literature in Tamil.

Rishi – A poet who has been active since the initial stage of modern literature in Tamil, she has translated several works of foreign literature into Tamil.

Sugandhi Subramaniam – A pioneer of Tamil feminist poetry. Later beset by psychiatric illness, she died recently in Thiruppur at the age of 42.

Uma Maheswari – She is a writer who handles diverse literary forms such as poetry, novel and the short story with great skill and excellence.

Thendral – A poet who presents with great clarity moments of liveliness from general plane of living, she works as a computer software expert in Chennai.

Ilampirai – In her poems, she transcribes rural images as seen through the eyes of women into words. Works as a teacher in Chennai.

Sukirtharani – Known as the pioneering symbol of Dalit feminist poetry in Tamil, she works as a Tamil teacher in Ranipet.

Salma – Chairperson of the Tamilnadu Social Welfare Board, she has used the novel format also to make the dark sides of Muslim society in Tamilnadu a subject for public debate.

Malathi Maithri – Involved in the movement to secure civil rights for fisherwomen’s communities, she plays a major role in shaping contemporary Tamil feminist poetry’s evolution.

Kutti Revathi – Editor of the Tamil feminist journal, Panikkudam, she works as a practitioner of Siddha medicine in Chennai.

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Notes on women poets from Tamil Eelam

Nila – A Lankan poet who started publishing her work in the late eighties.

Calani – A poet from the Tamil Muslim community, she is currently resident in Sri Lanka

Baamini / Mythili – Bamini Chelladurai emigrated from Sri Lanka to Australia, where she is currently resident. She has authored a book titled, ‘Sidariya Siddharthan (Scattered Siddharthan).’ She also writes under the pseudonyms, Mythili and Kotravai.

Meera Balaganesan – a poet who is currently resident in Sri Lanka.

Sivaramani – A poet who had set fire to all her writings before killing herself, Sivaramani is understood to have taken this decision in anger against the movements of that time. She was a university student, graduate student of External Studies.

Tamilnathy – Currently living in exile in Canada, Tamilnathy has published two collections of her poetry.

Anaar – Lives in Akkaraipattu in the eastern province of Sri Lanka. A poet from the Tamil Muslim community of Sri Lanka.

Simonethi – A pre‐eminent exponent of modern Tamil poetry from Eelam, Simonethi lives in exile. She continues to publish her work through the udaru web‐site (udaru.blogdrive.com)

Aazhiyaal – Currently living in exile in Norway. A graduate of Peradeniya University near Kandy town in Sri Lanka

Banubharathi – Working as a post office employee in Norway, she also runs a little magazine in Tamil called, ‘Uyir Mei.’

Thillai – Currently resident in Switzerland, Thillai used to work with Surya, a woman’s organization operating out of Batticaloa in eastern Sri Lanka. She had also worked as a journalist; fled to exile in Switzerland after her colleague, journalist Sivaram was killed.

Naamagal – Hails from Theevagam – Allaippitti in north Sri Lanka; writes poems and short stories.

Premini Sundaralingam – Premini hails from Ariyaalai in the Jaffna province of Sri Lanka; started writing in the nineties.

Selvi – It is now seventeen years since Selvi was arrested on August 31, 1991 by Liberation Tigers and went missing thereafter. Selvi was born in Semmadu in Vavunia. She was also a student of theatre arts in the University of Jaffna. Apart from staging several plays, she was also a poet. International PEN, the worldwide association of writers had awarded Selvi its Special Prize for the year 1992.

Faheema Jahan – Resident of Melsipura town in Sri Lanka, Faheema Jahan is an poet from the Tamil Muslim community in Sri Lanka. Has published a collection titled, ‘Oru Kadal Neerootri (Pouring an ocean’s water).’

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Paamathi – Currently living in exile in Australia.

Mallika – A poet who started writing in the nineties, she currently lives in exile in France (as reported in France Ilakkiya Sandippu Malar).

Sudhamathi – A rebel‐fighter and poet of the Liberation Tigers’ movement, she writes short stories as well, along with poems.

Malaimagal – A rebel‐fighter in the liberation movement, in charge of the training wing; also holds the position & rank of Deputy Commander. She has written short stories, essays and a book on rebel‐fighters’ diaries.

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Notes on Contributors

Kutti Revathi (Selection of poems, Introduction)

Kutti Revathi (real name: S. Revathi), 35, is the author of poetry collections, “Poonaiyai Pol

Alaiyum VelichamI (2000)”, “Mulaigal (2002)”, “Thanimaiyin Aayiram Irakkaigal (2003) and

“Udalin Kadavu (2006)”; and “Kalathai Cherikkum Viddhai (2009). She is also the editor of

Panikkudam, a magazine for women’s literature. Thismagazine documents literary conversations

held with creative writers active in the area of modern literature as well their intellectual

concerns. In addition, Revathi also publishes literary works by women through Panikkudam

Padippagam, a publishing firm founded by her, jointly with Aazhi Padippagam. Kutti Revath is a

practitioner of Siddha medicine, currently based in Chennai.

N Kalyan Raman (Translator)

N Kalyan Raman, 57, is a translator of contemporary Tamil fiction and poetry. His works include

three volumes of fiction by Ashokamitran: The Colours of Evil (1998), a collection of short stories;

Sand & other stories (2002), a volume of three novellas (jointly with Gomati Narayan); and Mole!

(2004), a novel. He has also translated a novel by Vaasanthi, published as At the Cusp of Ages in

2008. His translation of contemporary Tamil fiction & poetry has been featured in Kavya Bharati,

Poetry International, The Little Magazine as also in several anthologies of Indian language

literatures in translation. Kalyan Raman teaches at the Asian College of Journalism in Chennai.

Malavika PC (Illustrations)

Malavika, 27, is an illustrator and graphic designer based in Chennai. She also does theater and

performance work for a theatre collective in Chennai. Malavika has done cover and other

illustrations for leading publishers, including drawings for children’s books. She writes a column

for a city magazine and has produced educational material for AIDINDIA, a leading non‐profit

organization.

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