Poetry Month: COMFORT

when amma makes sambar

there is a part of me that hugs her

silently, quietly thanking her

for never letting the aromas

of my childhood leave home

even after i started working.


on the first day,

the sambar is generously poured over

an equally generous serving of rice, with

beans or cabbage upperi sitting neglected.

the achaar is forgotten too.


rice. sambar. pappadum.

the trifecta is enough for a lunch

that pales everything else in comparison.


not many know that sambar tastes better

later that day, then the next day,

and the next day and if there’s any left

for day 4, then then too.

with rice, dosa and chappati.

at least that’s how amma makes sambar.

every spoonful, every bite.

every day and every night.


comfort has its way of coming over,

uninvited, but definitely not unwelcome.

it's almost like it knows when it’s needed

the most.


the husband made sambar today.

lunch was just like at amma’s.


dosa for dinner.

with sambar.


i wonder if the feeling will continue.

-Priyanka Menon-Prasad

The language of comfort

Does not sit well on my tongue,

I am inept at speaking it,

And even the words that I know,

I mispronounce.

The tone isn’t right as well

It is shrill at times,

And at others, it comes out as a plea,

Both unlike the melody

In which some sing its song.

But I don’t give up,

That’s one thing I admire about me,

I let my body trust me enough

To show me where it hurts,

Pain doesn’t end, but suffering does,

And my body is just waiting

For me to learn the difference.

-Riya Roy



-Yamini Krishnan

arms slipping around me,

a beloved's embrace, some sort of

celestial alignment, glimpse

of cool shade on a hot day

washes away all sorrow,

every knot of tension

that plagues my weary body

dissolving,

diffusing,

in my beloved's arms,

I float,

float,

float.

-Eshna Sharma

Comfort is two hands wrapped

around you when you’re having

an anxiety attack in the middle of

the night and you just can’t breathe.

Comfort is the voice on your memos

that stops you from breaking down

at 8 am in the morning because

you forgot to iron your tshirt,

so you’re a failure in life.

Comfort is the smile that

plays hide and seek with your brain

when you’re baking cookies and

figuring out the recipe with

flour on your face.

Comfort is the playlist you throw on loop

When you’re cleaning your room

Because you can’t bear to have

Another messed up thing in your life.

Comfort is everything you can think of

But how long will it take

For you to realise

That comfort can be your two hands

Wrapped around yourself

Your own voice calming in your head

Your own smile proud of yourself

Your words of encouragement

Keeping you up all day.

Giving you a reason to survive.

You. You give yourself comfort.

How long will it take

For you to realise

That comfort can be you?

-Oojal Kour

A deckchair or hammock

A settee of chair

Lying in the long grass

As the wind plays with your hair


A pillow made with feathers

A mattress made of stone

Or a sleeping bag in the desert

Perceptions are our own


We all have our on feeling

What we see as luxury

You may love a 5 star hotel

But it’s never home to me


Because this is more than fittings

That fill the room you stay

It is as much about your mental being

A sense all’s going your way


So I would take an ancient bus

On a rough and winding road

To a remote and rustic tranquil place

Where my mind I can unload.


Running hot water’s not a prerequisite

And I’ll sleep gladly on the floor

I just crave freedom from the chaos of life

When I open up the door.

-Andrew Fleming

Velutha,

The only solace I knew

was through words

on paper, in songs

in Rahel's ramblings

and in Estha's silence.

But then you arrive-

like a tranquil God amidst a storm surge

You, my God of small things

You, my God of losses

You arrive and everything shifts

Solace now has marble arms

and ocean eyes,

sudden smiles,

a voice that reminds me of thunderbolts,

it's sweaty nights on river banks.

Velutha, if love isn't enough

bury me here

in a fistful of sand you stepped on-

on this boat shaped land we lived on.

Or let me drown

in this river you have called your home.

In the feeble moments of our end

let me forget everything, but you and this water.

But if love is enough,

enough for us to live

enough for others to let us live,

then let me count the sand you stepped on,

and build a boat shaped castle.

Let me make this river my home.

In the moments of a new beginning

let me put a rose on my hair

and wait for you at the doorstep.

Velutha, if love is enough

I wait for you,

I wait for our Tomorrow. .

.

Trembling on the banks of Meenachal,

Yours always, -

Ammukutti

-Soumya Hegde

comfort turns into

discomfort as April arrives

leaving March behind

-Asmita Bhattacharya


 
 

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