photo: MM Jumadil
My Kerala is how Germelina put it. Romancing that shitload of an island. Hey Germelina, Kerala is way up there in my political imaginary, green fields, windmills of hope, women in their right minds, something Arundhati Roy only hinted at in her novel, and who knows, I may actually be all wrong.
Maybe my Calcutta? But I don’t claim it as mine. And I’ve never been to Calcutta either, so I don’t know the place, how could I compare. It doesn’t flood much too often in Calcutta, does it? And no gang rapes?
Now the crazies in the island are still dreaming up sultanate and royal families, some thinking they are royalty, not me, makes me wonder if I am the one out of touch with reality.
The way I understand it, I had no permission. Last time I went I had to be presented to so many principalities I would otherwise not pay homage too, had I the choice. The dress is not my strongest suit, says Aida the musical, so I kept on bumping into the wrong tree. One mistake led to another, and somehow out of the so many mistakes, something kept on turning and turning into another thing like some wonderful widening gyre.
Dear Jolo, Salam to you Old Friend.
No comments:
Post a Comment