Rawness of love’s pain

When your favourite poet’s large part of work is in her mother tongue which you do not read, you naturally gravitate towards the translated short stories compiled in a lovely book where the slightly soiled garland of mogra flowers grabs your attention.

Kamala Das broke many, many traditions in her time. Not just with her poetry, but also with the fearlessness with which she lived her life. Her stories give us a glimpse into her heart and we begin to savour the language, and when we turn each page, we feel the anguish and the pain of betrayal. And when the rain begins its incessant lament against your windows, you sink deeper into the pillows and begin to realise how marvelously Shakespearean it is to read about little Appu’s loss of innocence when he looks at his mother’s trusting face (the vermillion powder that is liberally applied on the parting of her hair, with a little bit fallen on her nose) and his father who pretends that Stella who sat on his lap when mother was away; or about the sculptor who knows that her husband who is paralysed now and appreciates her beauty would have left her had she been the one paralysed and unable to earn a living.

Full report here Deccan Chronicle