Paramankeni Dreaming by Rohini Kejriwal
Dedicated to Tishani, who showed me wild, beautiful kingdom of Paramanke
This book is also for Ammu, the lovelie by the sea. Thank you
Finally, this is for Bagheera, Zelda a and kept me safe from sna
e how to love words, and let me enter eni. Thank you for everything you are.
est company to have when you’re alone u for all the memories.
and Buggy, who kept my spirits up, akes and imaginary ghosts.
Poetry by
y the sea
Paramankeni There ought to be a word for this kind of happiness Where moments of silence add up to a day, Where days and nights keep their own hours, And being alive in the moment is enough. It has been seven days since I arrived. I could live here another seven hundred. Life goes on, Uninterrupted, In Paramankeni. Tenderised by Nature’s kindness, I am calmer, gentler, even happier perhaps. In the eyes of the woman Looking back at me in the mirror, A light rekindles, Shining bright. I close my eyes and dream.
Time does not exist in Paramankeni Time does not exist in Paramankeni. Even the clock refuses to spoil the fun. It is stuck at 8.45. The crashing goes on outside. The undertow and moontide Gloriously engaged.
Chopin Follows He follows me from room to room In his hauntingly comforting way. He silences every other sound Until it’s just the two of you. And he plays you a Nocturne He plays and plays Until you are one with his every note, And cannot say a word.
This is an illusion. Any second now, The rain gods will unleash their wrath, Or the yellow snake, lurking, Watching over my silent existence Shall feast on my ample flesh. Or perhaps the sea will finally devour me After teasing death for so long. I wait for something awful to happen, For this dream to finally lift its veil. Nothing. I give in to the moment. Sit down besides a dead fish, And write a quiet poem.
Sligo River Blues I feel like having a good cry today. I blame John Fahey for the mood. Specifically the piece Sligo River Blues. In eight days, I have reunited my mind and heart, Returned to myself, The closest I’ve felt to anyone In so long.
The poet who lives by the sea It is apt that today, The world is celebrating peace Officially. I’ve had my fair share of peace and joy In the pink haven That has begun to feel Very much like home. Too much like home. In 72 hours, Utter disorientation will cloud these sacred thoughts I can feel the hours closing up, A magnificent tear in the story of my life being stitched up. I want to reset the clocks To the moment the churning began And grace appeared in the form of an email From the poet who lives by the sea.
Dead fish The sea is dropping off dead fish by the dozen, Like the cat dropping mice as gifts for its owner. I try to explain to the sea that I am a vegetarian. Unwilling to consume these recently alive big-eyed creatures. But the roaring waves are too loud, And perhaps it is too presumptuous To think they are for me.
Gloomy daydream The butterflies are no longer enthused To demonstrate their freedom. Yesterday, the garden was alive with birdsong, Butterflies of every size and colour, dancing with the wind. I am forced to conclude that it has something to do with the vitamin D levels on their wings. Today is the perfect day for gloomy daydreams. For me, anyway. The butterflies, on the other hand, Seem in need of a pick-me-up. I shall go play some Django Reinhardt, And hope they feel like dancing too.
Ophidiophobia Ammu points to a thick yellow snake Somewhere between the pines. I couldn’t see what she was looking at, I stood bewildered and terrified, Waiting for a branch to move somewhere, But all I saw was a trail of dust, Where it had been. Suddenly, it felt like being inside Jurassic Park, I, the lone survivor, escaping a garden of deadly snakes, Would I make it back alive? (I did.)
The Wait Sometimes, One needs to watch the sun rise, Brew the coffee, Brush your teeth, Do the dishes, Smell the plumeria, Perhaps even utter a silent prayer To feel brave enough To pick up the pen And begin.
Perfect Tuesday It’s turning out to be a perfect Tuesday The sun is nowhere to be seen, I have discovered yet another book by you, Ammu and Tamiselvi are chopping for vegetables and coconuts, For my much awaited meal. Sambar, tomato chutney, coconut chutney, dosa, Bhindi poriyal, brinjal poriyal, beans poriyal too! The aromas are taking me to a familiar place, Where I am happiness in abundance.
poem written in a dream state I wake up to the smell of petrichor The gentle symphony of the waves The sound of rain against the pale blue wooden window, Lulling me out of one dream And into another.
In the Kingdom of Paramankeni In the Kingdom of Paramankeni Lizards become wall art installations, Horny monkeys come chasing after your bananas, Frogs that want to be invited indoors serenade you with their mournful croaks. The crows and crabs and stingrays roam freely, As does the yellow snake in the garden. Tiny bugs hide in strange places, Behind lamps and doors, Stuck on towels and bras, Free to do as they please. Three dogs rule the sun and sand Bagheera, the sand-covered matriarch of the land, Buggy, the playful sugar-craving hyper one, And the butterflies, oh they are so lovely, Dancing to the sound of the waves. In the magical kingdom of Paramankeni, I am the zookeeper.
Dots As the fishermen walk away, They become dots Against the blurry sand. It is the law of nature. If I venture too deep Into the dark blue waters, I will become a dot. It is the law of nature.
Puri Being here, in this house of lost memories by the Arabian Sea, I remember memories unsurfaced for decades: Mother, in her black swimsuit with tiny white flowers, Asking the Malli to take her deeper in. My father, tall and handsome and breathing then, Watching her lovingly, Then offering to take her in himself. My sister being the good sister, Holding my tiny, timid hands as I jumped in delight, Braving and fighting each wave That threatened to take me away from them. Twenty years later, I sit alone in a house That reeks of salt and memory. The novelty is starting to wear off. I am learning to master The past, the present and the future.
An ode to a magnificent chair It is human nature to latch on To people, places, chairs, photographs. I am so attached to this wooden chair That I cannot finish a single poem Without sitting here.
On my last day in Paramankeni, I wake up without a fuss. I swim deeper into the ocean than I’ve ever gone, I don’t even bother with sunscreen. At the back of my mind, Every passing second reminds me that my time’s nearly up, I try and feign indifference, But the nagging feeling never dissipates. I remind myself to be happy For leaving Meant that I was really here That this dream really happened.
Amm
mu
Art in Pa
aramankeni
What the sea
left behind