Veena Room

Now the mango tree has been cut down, confused birds fly around an empty concrete blob. The veena’s strings are rust-coated. No newspapers form a layer under the dingy bed.

Sovereign

When the bride's right foot tipped over

the bronze pot

and rice grains scattered

on the mosaic floors,

whispers got swept into the cracks—

she came in

with one sovereign less

than

what was promised.

Her skin left bare

by a purple polyester saree 

bore no blue-black.

The dining table was laid out

for three

in the family of four.

Her plate had one roti less

soaked in fleshless gravy.

Beneath the stone sinks piled high 

with sticky dishes of last night

the soap and scrubber 

coarsened 

her hands.

Each morning, in the empty kitchen

she switches on a zero watt bulb

held by two emaciated

red and black wires

still entwined—

the pale yellow glow

follows her around the house

like a tarnished coin

of gold.

Marigold Strings

Listen:

The cradle doesn’t have iron bars 

just wooden beams 

draped with marigold strings

and a colorful spinner 

over fidgeting babies –

Red ants carrying stolen sweets

police those slender cracks

in teakwood windows

One day, you find a pair of scissors 

near your mother's sewing machine

and cut your waist-long oil-drenched hair –

leaving a wavy trail

through the winding corridors…

And then you will start hearing those warning chimes –

in the innumerable silver bells 

of a hand-me-down anklet.

Veena Room

The chrysanthemum border of the plastic tablecloth

flutters under the ceiling fan.

A muted TV serial without subtitles

merges into the background.

A tiny room tucked out of sight—

on a narrow bed near the dusty bookshelf

rested

my grandmother’s veena.

 I remember her sitting cross-legged in the hall,

the tumba of veena on her knee,

music notes curled up by her side,

eyes fixed on the white washed walls.

“Ammu— you want to try?” she would ask.

I did try once—

the metal strings

left their marks.

Beneath the bed that cradled the veena—

mangoes,

green ovals lined on yesterday’s newspapers.

Some slipped into children’s hands,

devoured with salt and chili.

Some ripened into gold

and simmered into mango curry—

a taste pickled in

cream-and-brown ceramic jars.

Now the mango tree has been cut down,

confused birds fly around an empty concrete blob.

The veena’s strings are rust-coated.

No newspapers form a layer

under the dingy bed.

Yet whenever I enter that room,

the walls close in—

ripe mango scents

overwhelm—

and dried yellow stains

shaped like puckered mangoes

swallow

the entire

red oxide floor.

The House that Knew

Windows had black metal bars bent

to look like a five-petal flower.

Glass had cracks – 

strands of hair, forking.

A worn saree eclipsed three-fourths

of the lopsided mirror's glass.

Red pollen gathered dust in a sindhoor stick 

shaped like a blunt crayon.

Shirts were stained with lipstick–

the color of rust.

So was the white salwar.

Lavender paint bulges before chipping

onto the bedroom carpets.

The roof holds–

yet.

In the washing machine

shirts and salwars get tangled

in rust hued waters.

Zodiac

A black crusted aluminum pot

filled with steaming rice water

placed over

a wide-mouthed patila –

silver pinpricks forming

illegible patterns

in the night sky.

Once,

the kaikala thuni made of

a torn cotton bedsheet 

slipped –

my arms dotted with

pinhead-shaped scars.

The same pinhead constellations

on my great grandmother’s right arm

concealed by a lazy drape of her melmundu 

as she sat slumped in an armless chair

in a rectangular frame smudged

with my fingerprints.

Patila - a wide-mouthed , deep metal utensil

Melmundu - A traditional upper garment worn primarily by women in Kerala

Kaikala Thuni - A utilitarian cloth, often repurposed from old cotton garments.

About the Poet:

Anjana Vipin Edakkunny is a writer from Kerala, India, now based in the United States. Her work explores connections between myth, memory, and contemporary experience. Her writing has appeared in Target Global (Laos). Her debut manuscript, The Sandalwood Pyre, is forthcoming from Writers Workshop, Kolkata.