Bereft of words now

My grandmother’s words

were like pictures with sound

her Tamil would wrap itself around me

and tell me what to feel

in the peak of summer

three rhythmic words would describe a heat so fierce

that I’d see the air swell and throb- hot and blistering

or each time a tantrum was thrown

two vivid sounds requested me not to shout in

a “ vaal-vaal”

so I’d compare myself to the neighbour’s Pomeranian

whose shrill barks habitually shattered peaceful nights.

Food was described with the economy of a poet

soft idlis were flowers

and grains of rice were given individual attention

when they puffed up- fat, moist, sticky but singular

“moru-moru”

so that rice was no longer shovelled into my mouth

but appreciated in morsels rolled by fingers and tongue.

A lack of spice was roundly abused

as “chappu”- a flat, lifeless thing

and something of her disgust

made me picture a slug slithering out of sambaar

hanging its head in shame.

My grandmother came from a time

where neediness was weakness

and women picked up the pieces and carried on

washing, chopping, cooking and cleaning

in schedules too tight for vulnerability.

And perhaps this is why

there was a word to admonish simpering

a word that I pictured like thick, sweet Pongal

bubbling up and overflowing from its earthen pot

a cloying, unnecessary mess,

a picture I have only known in

standard illustrations of “Happy Pongal” greeting cards

that lack the imagination but do the job.

My grandmothers words when I think of them now

were so many wholesome, round sounds

full of song and rhythm

a collection of absurdities and preferences

passed on

through generations of Tamil-speaking tongues

until they reached my ears,

me, who can speak the language, yes

but only in the clipped struggle

of those who first translate in their heads

unable to spill words with the ease

of grandmothers who weave poems

and stories

into the weather and rice.