The Drop

The Drop

It stands poised in midair,

The drop from my reclusive pen…

It should let itself go,

Fall from grace, be bold,

Rage a storm, blow dust,

Lash everything in sight…

But, the soil isn’t ready,

It has crossed its arms,

The earth hides a weak heart,

Its mouth is not eager…

To swallow the blood

That will splatter its face

When the drop disintegrates

And sows wayward seeds

But, it thunders now and then

Lightning strikes in anticipation

The soil teases and churns

Soon, the drop will bite the dust

Inseminated, soaked to its bones,

Pregnant with unholy secrets

The soil will spring to life

And wanton blooms will streak it scarlet.

- Archana Pai Kulkarni

My Closet

Don’t peep into my closet

I hide my soul there…

Some tears too, in a salt shaker

To be sprinkled as and when required

To add flavour to my insipid life.

My ego too, smoothened of its creases,

Lies neatly folded on a bottom shelf;

It will raise its head any moment, without warning.

My hurts are suspended over hangers

In a mock show of surrender;

They will have to be aired in the right season.

My sins, tied up in pure white muslin,

Are stashed away inside a tiny safe;

They knock on the door now and then.

Threatening to escape in broad daylight.

My shame is wrapped in old newspaper.

It’s been about town, a known face.

It rests in a corner, enjoying its anonymity.

Bits of my flesh cauterised by time

Are huddled close together in an airtight box

Lively accessories, waiting to be flaunted.

There’s more of me set aside in a pile

Disowned, neglected, feared, avoided…

Discarded, unwanted, forgotten, abandoned

Vying for my attention in the black hole

I’ll have to clean up my closet soon,

Evaluate each item, manage the mess,

But don’t turn the key yet,

Or open a crack to let the sunlight in.

For you don’t know what’ll enter the darkness

Or flee unnoticed, with a piece of my dignity.

- Archana Pai Kulkarni

My Grandma, The Time Traveller

Jani, my granny

My maternal grandmother Jani will turn 99 on August 5. While she is unable to walk, she’s full of spirit and vitality. Her mind keeps vacillating between the past and present. Now she’s here with you and the next moment, she’s at her childhood home in Ullal. Now she recognises you and asks after you and in a second, she stares at you blankly. Playful and lively in her winter years, my grandmother’s an enigma today.

Inside my grandmother, an ocean roars

Outside, surf settles on her skin, like gooseflesh.

Through the hidden alleys of her wizened veins,

Her bygone childhood runs amok, carefree.

Around her bed, the air regresses and laughs heartily;

Inside, memory reefs stand testimony to her turbulence.

Outside, coral beads weave a story around her neck;

Inside, her heart beats playfully in her backyard;

Outside, she forgets the rules of the game.

Inside, she’s at the market, buying a pair of red bangles;

Outside, she examines her bare hands wistfully

Inside, she’s five, pig-tailed, a merry fish,

Gliding back in time to sit on her father’s lap.

Outside, her lips part, a cry escapes, “Anna”,

And she scans every face for his kind, loving eyes.

Inside her, words well up, wave after wave;

Outside, her parched lips whoosh soundlessly.

Tides turn, storms rage, and she’s placid again, inside;

Outside, the tributaries on her face chalk new maps.

Inside, she rows her boat through lands forgotten;

Outside her hands grope for sand from umbilical shores.

Inside, she spots her husband hiding in an oyster;

Outside, she goes all coy, a child-bride again.

Inside, she gathers the priceless pearls of her tears;

Outside, she gifts away the treasures of her life in a will.

Inside she’s a dolphin, dancing with her little friends;

Outside, the music has stopped, her soles have cracks.

Inside, messengers bring her sad tidings from a dead daughter;

Outside, her ears long for the postman’s knock, news from beyond.

As she travels back and forth, inside and outside herself,

Timelines merge, she’s tossed about, and she swims aimlessly,

Till inside, a mermaid sings a soulful lullaby;

As the ocean calms down, outside, her eyes grow heavy,

And as she grows older, my grandma is a baby again.

A Good Scrub

A Good Scrub


I hang my life on a clothesline

Flag-marked with apparel.

Washed clean of my sins,

Assorted pieces, secured in place

With firm pegs.

Lest they fly away

Taking with them

Valuable shreds of evidence,

That I’ve indeed been chastised.

I’m averse to storing my sins

In the laundry basket

Because, in time, they give off

A vile odour, whose source

Can be traced back to me.

Make no mistake.

I wouldn’t deny having erred

Or broken the rules

Or crossed my boundaries.

But I dislike biased courtrooms,

Self-styled lawyers,

Poor judgments,

And naked spectacles.

So, at the end of each day

I take stock of my misdeeds

In complete seclusion,

Soak them in stinging detergent,

Dirty linen, in need of a good scrub,

And wring myself dry

Of hate, anger, jealousy, guilt,

Dust, grime, sweat, silt,

Life’s unwanted gifts.

Till purged, I wear a fresh face

And walk out into the world

Vulnerable to being sullied again.

- Archana Pai Kulkarni

A Fantasy

This poem was published in the January-March 1995 issue of the Indian P.E.N. when Prof. Nissim Ezekiel was its editor:

A FANTASY

One day, this dhoti-clad chap

Borrowed somebody’s khadi cap,

Thought he was the only heir

To the country’s coveted chair.

He called a meeting of his boys,

Addressed them in an important voice.

Said, “It’s election time again;

So buck up all you saffron men.

Somehow we have to grab each vote,

Perhaps by shelling out a note.”

“But—protested one from the gang,

This idea will have to hang;

Because the leader from the opposition

Has already put forth that proposition.”

“Then, may be, we can feed them to their gills,

Distribute a few birth control pills?”


“No”, said another perky guy,

“That’ll make our finances dry.”

“What carrot do we dangle, then?

What can possibly lure those men?”

Said one, “Let’s pray to God the Great,

He’s been neglected too much of late.

Let’s pick this God, this good guy,

And build a temple for him, by and by.

Let’s take him back to his place of birth,

Let’s choose a suitable spot on earth.

Let’s destroy what comes our way.

This good God must have his day.”

“With God on our side,” he said with a chuckle,

The majority will have to buckle.

On a chariot, let’s spread the word,

Make sure it’s well heard.”

This God was watching a trifle amused.

He couldn’t help feeling used and abused.

He decided to spring a surprise

On this chap and his coloured guys.

Seething with anger, trembling with rage,

He shook hard this vote-seeking sage.

Said, “Who told you I need a home?

Which you plan to build by breaking a dome?

There certainly isn’t a dearth of space,

I happen to own this universe, this space.

So, before you use me as a pawn

In your game with tridents drawn,

I expect you to think twice.

Be ready to pay a heavy price.”

“I’ll leave you in the lurch,

Settle in a mosque or church.

To me, they are all the same

Call them by any name.

Fancy using good old me

For want of a better strategy!

Change your mind and mend your ways

If you want to see happier days.”


Shamed into silence, the politician cried

For the campaign that had just died.

He knew now what the score was.

He had to take up a genuine cause.

He was a sadder but wiser man,

And God had just won another fan.

- Archana Pai Kulkarni,