Other Side Of The Pumpkin Poem by saranyan bee

</>I didn't know the big pumpkin
Was indeed a pumpkin indeed
When the old man had it brought
To the house, big and tidy,
The house big and tidy,
Pumpkin - big and dainty,
Yellowish and full of tapering folds,
Like the skirts
The school girls wear,
Where they come to study,
The big school opposite to my house
Or the house where I stay.
I made it made it tidy!
The house I mean,
But he made the house,
The old man,
The very big house,
Sandal wood doors,
Carved liked the drawings
I used to do on the sand grains
On the moist river bed,
With a Margo tree twig,
I used for cleaning my teeth
Everyday in the morning
When the sun was orange and purple
And the fragrance of the wild flowers
Was alive in the air with life,
I drew the angels, the horses, their mane,
The elephants and forget not the beautiful deer,
Whose eyes are lively to catch on the sand,
The sandal wood door had a fragrance too,
But smelt different and good
And never relents, prevailed through the day
Like the old mans wit,
Overpowering and stuffy,
Like the dungeon I sleep in
In the big house, it has three floors
Big rooms, and several rooms like
The bee-hives we used to feel good when we see
Them on the tree tops and rush to tell my
Brothers, who would bring them down for the honey,
Braving the insects,
And let us have the honey drops
Left-over on the sacks they use
To mask themselves with in the hunt,
And later in the night narrate the story
Of the film they get to see
Out of the money get for the honey they sell.
I now feel sorry,
I was responsible for driving them out of their home,
The honey bees, so many of them I cant count them
Like the way I feel now, away from my folks,
In this bee-hive of the man who laughs,
Chides and fills the air with his robustness,
Like the fragrance of the sandal wood door,
Mornings, evenings and even noon,
When all in the house take a wink,
He, his wife and me,
After I am tired making the house tidy,
The vessels, the clothes, the floor
That is granite, the wooden handrails
Carved with numerous lines,
The eight faced window hole in the stairway
With odd colors, pictures of the trees
All on a glass made like clouds,
I muse looking at the sun at the dusk
When all the colors fall on my faces
And felt like a Goddess when I saw myself
On the broken mirror bit I hid
Under the Kitchen sink for fun,
And keep seeing myself, the nose,
The cheeks or the eyes, even ears
Only one at a time, so small the mirror,
Whenever there is time to be alone
And brood and not tired like now
And the sun is in the horizon west.
I wonder who will eat the whole of pumpkin,
We buy only small slices for lunch, I love them;
But who will eat the whole of pumpkin,
Only three of us, the old man, his dame
And me the slave in this massive manor,
Where the whole of my village will find enough space
To live frolic and be happy;
He never had guests, the old man
Save the brother who visits with a sack of puffed rice
And went home with a wad of cash
And bellied meals I carve from my share.
Who for, the pumpkin big and dainty?
Big, round, like the gooseberry
Blown out of size.
The dame painted a cruel face on it,
Oh, it sure had the face of a face,
Black, red for eyes and yellow
Like the devil in the street plays
I loved to watch on festive days
In my ancient village
Which had nothing but the tamarind fruits
For snacks, we eat amongst other things. Or honey on the jute!
The old man beckoned the dame for something,
He always does that, keep us on toes;
And when she was away with the old man
I made the cruel face smile,
The curve in the mustache friendly,
A few ornate jewels I bequeathed him,
The face of the pumpkin,
Took the red out of his eyes
And made him look the angel he can be,
Before the dame turned to see the pumpkin
And screamed at me for turning him handsome.
What difference does it make,
We are going to eat the whole of it,
The pumpkin with friendly face.
I hid a smile if I could paint the old man’s face
With friendly eyes, a trace of a smile.
The old man romped in,
Never said word,
Took the vegetable to the balcony
Tying it to the parapet grill
With a blackened coir thread
Hanging out of a pumice stone,
So those pass by, including the children
From the school the other side,
Could see the pumpkin and admire.
They would know what a arty girl stays
In the house, that’s me
Who could draw a glamorous face
And praise the old man for the huge house
That could display the pumpkin
That adds color to the drab street.
What for?
This crazy act of tying the whole of a pumpkin
Outside the house, when we could have eaten it
Without paint rubbed on it?
In the night when the moon was out and fresh,
The old man was with his books,
Folks say that’s what make him big,
Rich and feared,
Reading lots of them, writing some,
He is quiet with them, books
And reigned in,
The twirls in his eye-brows,
Resting and the dame goes in her room,
Counting the jewels from the boxes,
I cant count how many,
How many times she counted them,
I cant count more than three,
Like counting makes them more, do they?
So many of them, lovely ones
Pitifully all gold,
Enough to pull her down with its’ weight,
That’s when I sneaked out into the balcony
To take a peek at the pumpkin face
Who now looked cruel again
Black and red spots all over
And the eyes raging like mad
A patch work of cruelty
Re-enacted by the old man
Before he hung it out finally.
I felt sad, looked at the moon to complain
But the moon too had a few spots,
Not so gruesome like my pumpkin
So I thought I added a few more black spots
Picking colors from his own face,
The old man must have done it too,
I mean picking colors,
That’s why he didn’t scold me,
Unlike the dame who did,
I am sure he must be adept,
In drawing lines like I am,
But impatient to take out the colors again
And make over all over.
So I pulled the tongue from his clenched teeth
Red from the eyes still red
On the pumpkin face.
What a farce it is,
May be he likes, likes to the see
The faces of the children who come to school,
How they react to the pumpkin man,
Laugh, fear or loath
Surely they would not ignore the piece
Of the art that is pumpkin face
Who is now a face instead of
Being our food for tomorrow
That’s what pumpkins were always for us,
In our small hamlet,
Eaten, eaten raw, even eaten cooked,
When they are not dried
And used as a buoy
Tied behind the boys
Who are timid and scream
When they are taught to swim,
Always kept in the old attic;
I have never used a pumpkin buoy
When my old grandma
Taught me to swim
With a thin towel around my hip,
You know it is more difficult to swim
With a towel around one’s hip
Unlike the girls in the pool
In the school across
Who wear frocks which are pinned
To their body like skin,
We are used to wearing towel around the hip
And swimming in the old well
Near our home that is tucked away,
It’s like swimming with one hand
And most often one leg,
For the other hand to act like a pin,
And all the girl laugh when the towel slips
When a pal pulls it for fun,
But here is a pumpkin fleshy and fresh
Which is neither a buoy or for the curry,
But the grand old pumpkin looks as if
Who would dare to wrench your neck.
How long?
How long would the old man keep this face
Hanging on the grill
And what for?
The old dame sneered for warding off evil
You don’t ward off things
With a gory looking vegetable,
I don’t like to see anyone do this stupid thing
Like hanging a pumpkin out,
So I stealthy thought I would carve a slice
And keep it for the dish I have to cook
Come morning, the moon is gone
And the old sun unto drying everything
That is on earth.
And the slice of pumpkin
I love eating,
From the back of the gruesome man
We all painted by turn,
The old dame, me, the old man and me again,
And hanging in the open,
Isn’t going to be seen by the kids
I mean the slice I plan to carve out,
And I don’t know how the kids are going to respond
At the painted fellow looking down on them
From top of the house, the big house
The big man has built and chosen to hang
The big and dainty pumpkin
With painted face
And a slice taken off his back.


BV Saranyan © August 2009