azeezfromprairies
azeezks@gmail.com
I read this poem Ini Yaathra.I could read this as an extension of her earlier poem Pranayathinte Nanarthangal, which was a beautiful poem. The little girl in the Pranayathinte Nanarthangal , who dreams the sky, wonders at the colourful world around, singing song with the bird, and who could melt away in the warmth of love is now trapped!!!!!A little innocent lamb is trapped in this poem Ini Yaathra
And this poem is her emotional discharge.
The poem reminds me a Wounded-Asram -Animal –Psyche.
The girl was enjoying the presence of loving asram- environment: the trees, flowers, animals and even the presence of Mamuni. Suddenly for some reasons , for some valid reasons which the lamb alone knows, it catches a tremor. Everything frightens her. She sees real dangers everywhere . All love, but to trap.. The loving look, the loving words, the loving caress, appreciation, the loving kiss all meant for carrying her away to the Dining Table surrounded by fiery- eyed men with sharp teeth waiting for her snow-like flesh. The Mamuni whom she trusted most carries the butcher- knife.
Scared really.
What the lamb can do;. poor innocent lamb. It runs away. Where to?
All waiting for her with Damshtras. So it hides under the grass. Hides inside the cave, breathless so that the knife wielding hunters do not trace her.
I feel this two poems together represent the real unsecured mind of girl , or a woman.
Or is this Molestation Complex engraved in the DNA of all women?: My wife, my daughter, my mother.
It is well written.
Ini Yathra is an incomplete poem by itself but as an extension of her Pranayathinte Nanartharthangal it is a complete poem. Like a Canadian Hamburger.
Its well written. Reflects the wounded heart of the poet.
Congrats.
As a man I think why ?
This lamb is under the spell of Molestation Complex, why?
She cannot love her father, because she has heard stories about fathers molesting daughters.
This lamb cannot love her brothers, there are stories about brothers too. Not any men! Not even women, because we have stories about women abusing little girls; at least in this country I live.
We are all human beings. The tragedy ( or the beauty) of life is that we cannot run away from the fantastic love play of this world.
She has a loving heart. She wants to love all creations. She has wept days and days for an abandoned kitten and on a broken wing of a loving bird.
so this world has love. God given love. We do have to love. But this world has traps too
Can we run away from love for fear of traps?
And which is the real love ,who knows. Or is there a real love?
Margarat Atwood is a famous Canadian poet and a novelist. In her 'The Year of the Flood' there is a character. She sees dangers everywhere. She sees Environmental catastrophe, ice caps melting ,global warming and the world like Armageddon. “Flood Flood ,“she screams. Her sister runs away into the room .Where? She said, see here ,I see a Waterless Flood. She throws away the paper she was writing. Because the paper is not a paper now.It is blood- oozing flesh of trees.
And Atwood gives us a loving attention to our life.
Don’t mistrust life. Let them happen when they happen.

So lamb, don’t get scared.
I am a butcher .But not necessarily the whole world.
Don’t mistrust life.

Thank you azeez ikka
No more words I can say now.
Only thankz,
for reading me,
for understanding me,
for consoling me..
for everything..
You have a golden pen.
It can encourage many ones.
and you have a kind heart,
that can cure many hurts.
love
sree

AzeezfromPrairies
azeezks@gmail.com

Sreejith Vinayan
Your poem is very disturbing.
Through this, you write down the intense pain of a pravasi mother.
;and you did pass, this agony, the agony of a mother separated from kids,to all pravasi mothers.
I am a pravasi father, but never did I experience this sort of pain;means, a mother is a mother, always.
Even the rain that comes to wet the dry soil and mind cannot pacify your parched soul.
The picture you draw of the 'kurumban' playing in the rain and the mother running to bath him with a mug is earthy.
You are a mother buried under , neck out, and you see your kid crying, wounded and you suffocate, not being able to extend.
sreejith, you choke us too .
You show it as if it happens before us , just at the present.
It pains our heart when you say your dreams at your sleepless nights thinking of your kids ,and when the day falls you masquerade a happy mother .oh!
Good poem.
This is a great presentation to all pravasi mothers.

May be this is the time I thought of a mother differently.


Think of this mother.
Not a pravasi, but who has been separated, for ever, from her kids
by the pressure of Muslim social laws.
How the destiny has made her suffer.
She would have been carrying a turbulant storm inside, powerful to burst out all man-made laws.
But she carried it all along in her heart.
Think of her.
No matter she has a new husband, no matter she has a new child ,no matter she eats good biriyani and has a mansion.
oh mother!!!
Sreejith, you doubt your kids?their love , what they think of you, their feels?

Ask this son.
The son of that mother.
How did he hide a volcano in his heart .
Ask him how he lost his laugh and face.
Ask him how he wears a blanket of destituiton despite all abundance.
by for now.
best wishes.

poochakal anganeyaa, viswasikaan kollukela, sneham kaanikkum,pinne kaanaathaavum. patti nere marichaa, eppozhum viswasthanaa, onnum koduthileelum athu eppozhum koode kaanum.

enne pole...
patti ennu ithilum bhangiyaayi engane vilikkaanaavum?

athenthee, pattiyum manushyare pole thanneyaanu, avarkkum ee lokathu jeevikkaan manushyane pole avakaasamundu.vaikam mohammad basheerinte 'bhoomiyude avakaasikal vaayikkuka'
swayam patti ennu vilichathil aasamsakal nerunnu