Unpackings: Three Poems by Shobha Tharoor Srinivasan
Photo: Karan Madhok
Poetry: ‘somewhere, / in the quiet / of this new world, / a new rhythm / begins to hum.’
Old Words Matter
For years,
we called him Etta.
But now,
we are told,
by our mother,
that etta is the term
for a repulsive insect.
Perhaps she has forgotten,
and is remembering
the word for leech
in Malayalam:
അട്ട utta/atta.
How can we call him
with love in our hearts
when the meaning
is so repellant?
Old words
are loaded
with memory,
meaning, and associations,
that conjure images
of stories, laughter, love,
and childhood games.
So ettan, and chettan,
and jheshtan
ring false.
And roll off the tongue
hollow with thickness
and the unfamiliar.
Sometimes,
right or wrong,
only the old words
matter.
*
Everything is Esculent
I bought a large piece
of jackfruit wrapped in plastic,
from the Indian store
today.
Clean and neatly displayed,
its strong musky smell,
masked from shoppers,
yellow, ripe fruit,
pushing against the wrap
hiding the luscious sweetness
I could taste
from my childhood.
At home, as I tugged and ripped
to separate the unyielding flesh
from its strong, ribbed skin,
I thought of summers
in my grandmother’s house.
The women gathered around
the large green haul,
the easy camaraderie
of fruitful work,
coconut oil on their hands
to stop the gum and sticky sap
from coating their fingers
as they worked deftly
to feed us all.
The crunch of the large, white seeds
roasted like kadla on the cheenachetti.
the meaty texture of the thoren
from the tender chakka
that they cooked with coconut
from another part of the fruit.
Waste nothing was their mantra.
They raised us well—
with tenderness
and nourishment,
so that we could
leave them all behind
for plastic wrapped fruit
in grocery carts.
And for food processors
to feed just two.
Some smells never leave a person.
Some tastes continue
to linger on the tongue.
*
Unpacking
A photo album
of every member
of the family
stuck on sticky pages
with plastic
to protect the love.
Mirror-work fabric
will soon be
a wall hanging,
a wooden kathakali face
will dress up the wall.
I unwrap all this
from my blue hardback
Aristocrat suitcase
in a small dorm room
that I will soon share
with a roommate
who I have never met.
I was not born
to this American soil.
This vast place
of endless highways
and empty roads.
I smooth the creases
of the silk sari
I transported
across the miles.
Air India from
Delhi to New York.
I tuck the scent
of home
into a drawer,
beside my books.
Outside, autumn leaves drift.
Fall colors—I am told.
Strange, orange, unfamiliar.
I carry monsoons
within me.
But somewhere,
in the quiet
of this new world,
a new rhythm
begins to hum.
***
Shobha Tharoor Srinivasan is an author of a dozen works of fiction and nonfiction published in India and the United States, and an award-winning voice-over artist who won the 68th National Film Awards, India, for Best Narration Voice Over in 2022. She has also worked for almost two decades as a non-profit development professional and as an advocate and fundraiser for persons with disabilities. You can find her on X: @ShobhaTharoor and Instagram: @shobha.ts.
