English Literature

A Hot Noon in Malabar by Kamala Das  This is a noon for beggars with whining  Voices, a noon for men who come from hills  With parrots in a cage and fortune-cards,  All stained with time, for brown Kurava girls With old eyes, who read palms in light singsong Voices, for bangle-sellers who spread On the cool black floor those red and green and blue Bangles, all covered with the dust of roads, For all of them, whose feet, devouring rough Miles, grow cracks on the heels, so that when they Clambered up our porch, the noise was grating, Strange . . . This is a noon for strangers who part The window-drapes and peer in, their hot eyes Brimming with the sun, not seeing a thing in Shadowy rooms and turn away and look So yearningly at the brick-ledged well. This Is a noon for strangers with mistrust in Their eyes, dark, silent ones who rarely speak At all, so that when they speak, their voices  Run wild, like jungle-voices. Yes, this is A noon for wild men, wild thoughts, wild love. To Be here,

 The Sunshine Cat   They did this to her, the men who know her, the man She loved, who loved her not enough, being selfish And a coward, the husband who neither loved nor Used her, but was a ruthless watcher, and the band Of cynics she turned to, clinging to their chests where New hair sprouted like great-winged moths, burrowing her Face into their smells and their young lusts to forget To forget, oh, to forget, and, they said, each of Them, I do not love, I cannot love, it is not In my nature to love, but I can be kind to you. They let her slide from pegs of sanity into A bed made soft with tears, and she lay there weeping, For sleep had lost its use. I shall build walls with tears, She said, walls to shut me in. Her husband shut her In, every morning, locked her in a room of books With a streak of sunshine lying near the door like A yellow cat to keep her company, but soon Winter came, and one day while locking her in, he Noticed that the cat of sunshine was only a Line, a half-thin

 The Freaks   He talks, turning a sun-stained Cheek to me, his mouth, a dark Cavern, where stalactites of Uneven teeth gleam, his right Hand on my knee, while our minds Are willed to race towards love; But, they only wander, tripping Idly over puddles of Desire. .... .Can this man with Nimble finger-tips unleash Nothing more alive than the Skin's lazy hungers? Who can Help us who have lived so long And have failed in love? The heart, An empty cistern, waiting Through long hours, fills itself With coiling snakes of silence. ..... I am a freak. It's only To save my face, I flaunt, at Times, a grand, flamboyant lust.

 My Grandmother's House by Kamala Das   There is a house now far away where once I received love……. That woman died, The house withdrew into silence, snakes moved Among books, I was then too young To read, and my blood turned cold like the moon How often I think of going There, to peer through blind eyes of windows or Just listen to the frozen air, Or in wild despair, pick an armful of Darkness to bring it here to lie Behind my bedroom door like a brooding Dog…you cannot believe, darling, Can you, that I lived in such a house and Was proud, and loved…. I who have lost My way and beg now at strangers' doors to Receive love, at least in small change? Kamala Das