A poet named Nanditha

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Last month as I was in India shopping for books, I came to know about this poet called Nanditha. When I came to know more about her, I was intrigued. Nanditha K.S. (1969-1999) was a poet the world came to know about only after her death. Her life and death still remains a mystery to her family, friends and the world. 

Nanditha was a lecturer who was teaching students in a college in a small town in Kerala. The night she died, she had informed her mother that she would be getting a phone call. She had insisted that she would be attending it herself. However, her parents has no knowledge about whether this call came through. They never heard that telephone ring for which she waiting for. That night as her mother woke up sometime around midnight, she was shocked to find that her daughter had committed suicide by hanging herself from the terrace. Nanditha had committed suicide by hanging herself on the end of a saree. 

It is after her death that her parents found a series of poems that she had written down in her diaries. Absolutely beautiful and brilliant, her friends and family felt that it had to be published. I'm so glad that they took that decision and I got to read her collection of poems. Each one haunting and melancholic, reflecting the inner demons that were torturing the young poet. 

They spoke of love, pain, death, an unbearable sadness... Her life and death shall probably always remain a mystery. But you can't help but wonder, whom was she expecting that late night phone call from? What was the reason that finally drove her to end her own life? Never once had she taken any initiative to get any of her poems published when she was alive. Nobody knew of the poet that was alive in her. 

She wrote because that was the only way she could face her inner demons. That was probably the solace she sought for. Did death fascinate her as much as she wrote about? 

I'm not going to label this as a book review. I don't think it would be fair to the book or to the poet if I were to judge it. And so, that was how I read it. This was her life. Her fate that she decided for herself. My only sadness was that I couldn't read more of her poems. Written in both Malayalam and English, each poem written during certain periods of her life, right from 1985-1998, speaks volumes about the mind that it was born to. 

Quoting a few of my favorite poems by Nanditha here. This post would be incomplete without it. 

What is that crack on the face?

A burrow?

Rather a sneaky trench.

You call it a smile?!

I know 

That is amiability.

But why don't your eyes keep quiet?

Discipline them

Or they get out of control

Why not tear them out?

Throw them on the rocks

So that they would never sprout.

They are to die with this century.                                                                                  -1992

This is one of my favorites from the entire collection:

My mirror has gone made.

It throws weird images at me. 

In the past

It was sensible. 

Once an angel 

Once a witch

But always

One image at a time.

Now

There are silent screams

Thrown at my feet

Like empty oyster shells.

Once I caught

A pretty wine glass

Before it caught my eye.

Later

There were faded violets.

Today I was shocked.

It was an egg

Fidgeting in blood

Like a fish out of water.

I swear, It contracted

Like a heart.

Gory, terrifying

It spit out a sperm

And died.

An empty red plastic bag

Horror!

I tremble...

Before I collapse

I throw my mad mirror 

Out through the window

Down to the streets.

I killed it.                                                                                                       - 18 August 1993

This book deserves a five star rating and no less. It is not simply another book, but a life. Do buy it and read if you can. My heart felt thanks to Fatima Chechi who had recommended this book to me. The words that Nanditha has written are bound to stay in your heart for a long, long time...

Edit- Since some of you wanted to know where you could buy a copy of the book, here is the link (I checked Amazon but unfortunately, it was not in stock) - http://www.indulekha.com/nandithayude-kavithakal-poetry-nanditha

An enigma called Kamala

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This afternoon, I started reading 'A Childhood in Malabar- A Memoir' by Kamala Das and it struck me that today's post should be on her. Reading her words in my room in a scorching summer, her words transported me back home. I could feel the rain on my face. I could her the tinkle of her bangles when she was a child. In her words, I could see the mysterious Korathi with her sick parrot who came to read her hand. I could see the aged Nalapat house, its vadakkini and thekkini.

I have been in awe of all her works which I have discovered only during the past year or so and have been devouring her books ever since. There are certain books which makes sense to you during a particular period of time. Had I read her books earlier, perhaps, I would not have fallen as much in love with them as I do now. She came into my life at the right time and I have been in love with her words ever since.

What a woman! She wrote from her heart, not caring what anyone would think of it. And perhaps, that is why you can relate to her writings with so much honesty. Kamala Das has quickly turned into one of my favorite authors. Hailing from Kerala, most of her stories and poems are set in the backdrop which I was born and brought up in. She easily strikes a chord in the heart of her readers.

Kamala Das was a woman who lived life on her own terms, be it the literary one or her controversial, personal one. Hailing from a small village in Kerala, she was popularly known as Madhavikutty, for her works in Malayalam. She attracted the scorn and hatred of many for her bold and sensuous writing about love and lust. The way she openly wrote about desire and the needs of a woman sent sparks flying.

Married off at a tender young age of fifteen, she found her passion for writing early in life. Her father was an editor of a popular Malayalam daily called Mathrubhumi and her mother was a famous Malayali poetess. Her childhood was spent largely in Calcutta and Kerala, the influence of both which are to be seen in her writings. 

Ever since I discovered her books, I have been trying to get my hands on as many as possible. My Story is an autobiographical work which raised many eyebrows for its controversial content. But my personal favorite of the ones I have read so far is Wages of Love is a compilation of many of her articles, short stories, poems and plays. Neypayasam is a gem of a short story which talks about the plight of a father who comes home to his three young sons after his wife's death. This story will make sure you shed a tear or two. It is a story which moved me so much that it still remains close to my heart.

Having born to the Nalapat family and of a Nair origin, her conversion to Islam at the age of sixty five and adopting the name Kamala Surayya again put her into scrutiny in the eyes of public. Her death in 2009 at the age of seventy five was a huge loss to the literary world.

Kamala Das was an enigma, a mystery perhaps even to herself. Her words would stay with you beyond the pages. A writer whom I always go back to, for inspiration. And today, as I write this, I wonder if there would ever be another writer like her. One who would write with an honesty and passion as only she could. Somewhere deep inside, I know that the space she left behind can never be replaced. And I wish...

This post is written for Day 2 of the Ultimate Blog Challenge for July 2014 and NaBloPoMo.