The Many Deaths I Died by Anand Haridas

Anand Haridas | Jul 4th, 2019 | poetry | No Comments


This is not me.
Stretched out
On that wooden bed
Designed like a human body.

This is not me.

Warm oil
Slithers on me.
Its forked tongue pokes my memories.
A pair of hands
Hunts for still raw wounds
In my flesh.
This is not me.
On the massage bed.

A stupid game in Facebook
Told me, I was Che Guevara
In my previous birth.

Then I saw him.
Lying on the lap of his best friend.
On the back seat of a Silver Grey Ambassador.
I stood on my toes, my head barely over the compound wall
And watched.
Hushed silences peeked from windows.
My father, the village’s duty doctor,
Took a look at him.
And shook his head.
“It’s all over.”
But I did see him opening his eyes
For a brief while.
May be he was looking for the snake
That gave him the last kiss of life.
In that one glance
He passed on to me all those tales of lust.
I looked around. 
One window had no eyes.

My body tossed on that bed.
Twisted and turned.
Like a piece of meat on the grill.
It is not me, though.

“Relax. Relax. Do not resist.”
I keep my eyes closed.

Burnt bodies. Hacked bodies. Precise number of cuts. Shot and torn. Stones stuffed into vagina. Petrol injected to anus. Tied up and beaten to death. Expelled. Shut fists. Home loan. Car loan. Phone bills. A long grocery list.

I have given up resisting.
Long back.
That stupid game.
I watch from above.
This is no longer my body.
A pair of hands keep searching for
Wounds that still hurt.

I am reborn.

Poet Bio

Anand Haridas has always been in love with words and images. He started off his career as a journalist. After a brief stint with different dailies in North India, he joined The Hindu, one of the foremost national dailies, at Kochi. He reported for The Hindu for more than a decade on a range of subjects from art and culture, civic administration to law and order. In pursuit of more creative space, he left journalism and moved on to advertising and branding fields. On creative writing, he has finished the translation of two novels – Kumaru by C.R. Omanakuttan based on a relatively unknown phase of poet Kumaranasan that he spent in Kolkata and Kamakhya, a new perspective on the life of Sage Vatsyayanan by new generation poet Pradeep Bhaskar. Anand’s translation of the play Kaali Natakam by Sajitha Madathil was published in Indian Literature, the bi-monthly journal of the Kendra Sahitya Akademi and has been included in the syllabi of different universities at post-graduate level.

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