Mother keeps her mother in complaint letters - Four Poems by Jasmin Naur Hafiz

in our book of household expenses,
To the Health Inspector, Kadakampally
from grandmother
Sub: Re Cutting of Branches of Tree
complaints in sharp cursives,
of a rogue neem,
unruly eyes, hands, trunk
needing of a good fell,  
yours faithfully. In another,
dated 10-2-2000,
to the Superintendent of Posts,
of a registered letter, lost.
I humbly request you to look into the matter
the superintendent did not look. Into the matter.
but mother did—
in our book of bills. Groceries Rs 2000,
Car servicing Rs 10000.

Fished from a dusted drawer,
neat in mother’s round letters—
marinate 1kg chicken in four spoons curd,
three spoons ginger-garlic paste,
turmeric, chilli powder and salt. Leave for 1 hour.
A recipe note.
Mother keeps her mother in complaint letters
And I keep mother in recipe notes.  
The pretty women
in the TV cookery shows
have pretty little glass bowls,
to hold a spoon of spice each, just.
Grandmother’s kitchen lacked as many
glass bowls, the few, safely
tucked away in the showcase,
like the complaint letters
sheltered under her green mattress.
Mother must have scribbled
the recipe from the cookery shows,
and fished the complaint letters from
beneath the mattress.
She keeps the complaint letters
and I keep the recipe,
both for their ironic ambitions.  
Grandmother doesn’t complain,
Nor does mother cook.

our dirty clothes
go from the machine
to the wooden bed
in the guest room, piled
on top of each other
a two feet mess.
until the ironers come
and we stuff the crumpled clothes
in two big bags and send it off
to be pressed gently, firmly, softly, deftly
by a charcoal iron box
which like a teacher’s cane
disciplines unruly pants, shirts,
dresses, sarees, churidhars,
cotton, linen,
rayon, denim
into neatly arranged files.
Erunnoor roopa, the Tamil ironer tells me
irunnoor or ezhunnoor?
two hundred or seven hundred?
I clarify with gestures to make sure
the Tamil two hundred
did not mean
the Malayalam seven hundred.
he waves a two in the air,
I disappear and come back
with a fresh orange-coloured note.
Eppo vanthittey? he asks me in Tamil,
when did you come?
last week. I reply in Malayalam.
I went home to Ramanathapuram
and prayed that you become a collector soon.
the old ironer said
in between his TB coughs.
Ramanathapuram? avide enge?
in half-malayalam-half-tamil I ask,
narrowly escaping any conversation
about my becoming a collector.
where there?
theriyuma Ramanathapuram? do you know
my hometown, he joyfully enquires
like I did to the white man who
showed me Vembanad Kayal
on his phone’s wallpaper.
in two broken languages I tell him
of the time I went to Rameshwaram
and Dhanushkodi.
his eyes widen.
Sayalgudi. en ooru ange thaan.
my home is there.
I tell him
that on the route back to Tirunelveli
I had spotted Sayalgudi
lined with small shops
in an otherwise deserted
national highway.
he tells me of his town,
of the temple,
of the sea,
of the pamban bridge
and I nod happily
along, signalling that I
was a tourist in his homeland.
he then bids me well and
I take the ironed clothes inside
and sort them into
different almirahs
where they rest in contentment.
two weeks they last,
and in two weeks
the ironers come again
though this time we do not have stories
to exchange.
being a tourist in the homeland
of someone
who is a worker in mine
means that stories don’t
reappear as easily
as creases do.
creases though,
they are aplenty.

the kitchen explodes in the spice
of the fish, fried to tenderness,
the women sneeze,
twice, thrice. And I
think of the man who sneezes
so soft. like a whisper. His baritone
whipped down into a mellow cough
in consideration. He writes me letters
each one, ending gently
“ever yours, in submission”.
Men who sneeze softly
can be loved.

On afternoons, I think of love.
the clothes dry in the sun
along their creases. The quiet man in the train
wore a blue shirt, crumpled.
its edges crumpled further
with each glance,
his hands, like my own, brimming
with sweat, sought shelter.
I steal a look to say
I understand.
our hands would falter, slipping
if they were to hold.
His lips curve,
in a smile so fleeting, sweet.
Shy men in crumpled clothes
can be loved.

my mother dreamt of me in persian flowers.
I imagine she did. Niloufar, a water lily.
blue and purple.
Jasmine, with the scent. white, small.
abundant over the qabrs in our graveyard.
my grandmother dreamt of me
in her only daughter. Jasmin. Jasmi, Yasmi, Yasmin.
my aunt whose name lost and gained letters
every so often,
until her dying medical documents settled on
a y without an n.
my father thought of me unusually specific,
a flower. Nawar.
as if jasmine weren’t enough a reminder,
that I ought to carry the weight
of a misnomer.
my sister settled on suruma like the whisper
of a word she coined,
unsure at four.
kohl, the colour of night on her eyes,
words in the baburaj songs my uncle sang.  
a flower, a flower flower, a kohl, a favourite child.
namesakes, like caged reminders,
for far too much.