Why do I write in English ?

Born in the latter half of the 1950s to a father whose work determined the next destination of schooling, and a mother, trying her best to keep up with the need to establish a modicum of familiarity with one’s own native land, the language of English became my conversational companion. Whether it be reading with a Polish babysitter or trucking along the cobblestones of Rome on the way to school, English, the globally accepted lingua franca that it may be today, was always the easiest way to express oneself. My upbringing, looking back, certainly played a pivotal role in my choice of career. A degree in Physics proved to be but a fortunate conduit to my true calling in life; a life surrounded by not just reading as much as one could in English, but also attempting to spread the same zeal I held in my heart. A Master’s, an M.Phil, a Ph.D, four decades of teaching and guiding later, my instincts were proven right. The poetry of John Donne, William Wordsworth, Thomas Gray, T S Eliot, W B Yeats, and W H Auden; the novels of Thomas Hardy, George Eliot, and Charles Dickens; the plays of Shakespeare, Shaw, Ibsen and Beckett, and the essays of George Orwell, Aldous Huxley and G.K. Chesterton, shaped my literary sensibilities.

Upon retrospection, the days I spent wrestling with Larkin and Soyinka, in an attempt to pay tribute to these icons of linguistic mastery, provided me with a level of clarity that seeped, perhaps unconsciously, into my lecturing, teaching and beyond. A wide-eyed student entering a classroom for the first time, unsure of what is to become of him or her in the upcoming semester, year or half-decade of education could rest assured that they were in safe hands. The gratification one receives upon meeting any of the aforementioned students and their remembrance of our prior interactions, in minutia, makes the journey worth it.

A large number of students while I was teaching at Government Victoria College in Palakkad came from challenged backgrounds, economic or otherwise. They were quite taken aback to know that I had read a fair few novels in Malayalam, translated, and could cite from the same. This included the works of Thakazhi Sivasankaran Pillai, Vaikom Muhammad Basheer, O V Vijayan, and M T Vasudevan Nair.

The ingrained image of a Professor; the stereotypical, grouchy taskmaster dissipated in the blink of an eye and was replaced with a person, who could speak to them in a language they understood.

It can often be observed that from an early age, girls and boys are shamed or made fun of, if they speak in English vis-à-vis their ‘mother tongue’, be it Malayalam, Tamil and the like, which in turn, leads to difficulty expressing themselves in English as they grow older. The winds of change will occur, as slow as they may be, if one indulges in English, conversationally and otherwise.

My love affair with the English language has culminated in the publication of printed poetry anthologies, 35 at last count. The City and the Hermitage (1988), Eyes (2010) and Whispers of Light in Darkness (2013) are my published poetry collections. In addition to this, my short stories have appeared in five anthologies.

All literary creation begins as a kind of exploration. As T.S. Eliot observes in the poem “Little Gidding”:

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.”
 

WRITINGS
 

POEM

1.    SENTENCES

Sentences are like snakes - -
They slither across
The listless page

And form a family
Of curious paragraphs
Speaking with a forked tongue - -

Soon, they will reappear
Under another skin of words
Coiled and waiting

Ready to make you drowsy
With hissing adjective
And paralyze you with venomous verbs - -

Sentences can sense
The heat of your presence
And, sometimes, swallow the whole sheet.

 

SHORT STORY

The Music Critic

The music critic kept time with the song on the radio. Chitra pouted. What a man! Music 24x7. “Chitra, is there any coffee left in the pot?” She laid aside the blouse she was stitching. “Let me have a look, I think there is.” She got up and disappeared into the kitchen. The music teacher leaned back on the easy chair, and facing the open window, watched the birds chirping in the trees bathed in sunshine. The music soared. A dog in the neighbourhood howled. Chitra thought: Why is it so loud? Soon, the elderly couple next door will be knocking on the door. Aagh! A drop fell on her hand. She returned to the living room with a cup of coffee. Sheer carelessness! The music programme had ended. She froze.

His hand lay dangling limply, and from where she stood, she could see that his head had slumped forward. The Sanskrit news was on the air. Normally, he would have switched it off. Fatigue? She placed the cup on the teapoy. “What’s the matter? Not feeling well? Must be the chill you caught on the train while returning from the concert. I told you to take the sweater, remember?”

She sat on the cane chair by the radio. Voices surrounded her: Go and wake him up. He must have fallen asleep. Don’t! He might be, might be . . . . Shobana and Beena will be back from school any moment. They wanted to go to Lalitha’s house. But they have their exams tomorrow. Shobana will do well. I’m worried about Beena. She never studies. I wish you would speak with her. She listens to you. I don’t like visiting Lalitha so often. Lalitha is fine, but what about her mother?? There are so many odd stories about her. The dog howled once more.

A streak of sunlight now shone brightly on his bowed, bald head. “Amma, it’s all your fault. You make him work so hard,” Shobana had accused her. “Money isn’t everything,” Beena had grumbled. Children! Children! “The cylinder of gas is nearly empty. What about the broken tiles in the storeroom?”

He had been coughing badly when he had gone to attend the concert: He should have taken the sweater. And, he had recently recovered from a bout of jaundice. The invitation was too good to refuse: board and lodging, fully paid, with no strings attached. She was proud of him: outspoken, impartial and frank. All that counted for him was talent.

“Amma, Acchan should get some rest. Dr. Raju told you in front of us,” Shobana had observed. “Amma loves money more than she loves Acchan.” Beena had mumbled. Slap! “Say that again!” Slap! Impertinent brat!

“The coffee is getting cold.”

The rent tomorrow, the long overdue water bill the day after, and we survive, month to month. Acchan is tired. He is only forty. BP and Cholesterol. Study, girls, study. Beena, what do I do with you?

“What did you say?” He had whispered something. She was sure he had whispered.

Her heartbeat quickened. The Sanskrit news was over. She switched off the radio. “Speak to me. Please.” She was perspiring heavily. She walked, slowly, towards him. The dog barked plaintively. She stretched out her hand. And she woke up with a start. His chest rose and fell like a wave. There was music in the movement and in his long, wheezing snore. She snuggled up to him and her entire being was filled with a comforting, indescribable warmth.