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

Mother keeps her mother in complaint letters

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.

Sayalgudi

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.

On afternoons, I think of love

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.

Namesakes

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.

---

About the Poet:

Jasmin Naur Hafiz is an editorial assistant at the Economic and Political Weekly. She studied economics at the University of Oxford as a Commonwealth scholar. She loves music, cats, the sea and quiet. And writing.