
Author: PUSPHPA NAIDU PAREKH
Publisher: ARCHWAY PUBLISHING, BLOOMINGTON
Softcover: $26.99
This delightfully insightful book is an important
addition to diaspora literature.
With deft brush strokes, the writer paints emotions into breathtakingly
beautiful poetry.
The title of the book is culturally resonant, and the tripartite structure of
the book embodies the Border, the Body, the Edge or pallu
of the sari.
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Pushpa-Naidu-Parekh |
In the Preface, she says, "My personal journey includes certain intersections of various kinds", where education, inclusivity, and independence of thought were more emphasized. Worn-out beliefs, traditions, and customs were not a part of her South Indian middle-class family who lived in Chandigarh, North India, and spoke Telugu, English, and Hindi, but 'the norms of ableism and patriarchy ruled the world,” she stepped into.
In the Introduction, she writes,
“They are both texture and text. The braid—often kept long and styled
with flowers (especially in South India) or lengthened with extensions (as in
North India)—is a prized possession with both aesthetic and spiritual meanings.
The sari is a length of untailored cloth material that has been the traditional
everyday garb of Indian women for millennia."
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Santosh Bakaya |
Richly layered and textured, the book explores a woman’s vivid and sometimes
muted memories of her life in India, her move to the US, and her diasporic
experiences there. As she covers the distance from one homeland to another,
many layers of herself, involving her physical, emotional, and spiritual self,
are revealed- the braid and the sari both being symbolic of the draping of
oneself and the unraveling of many selves.
In the very first section, Borders,
in the first poem, she says,
“I carry my country
in the crucible
of harrowed language,
at the edges
of faded photographs,
on the backs of displaced “coolies,”
Indo-Caribbean diaspora,
Migrants from distant shores (Memory Poem, P 2)
And in
‘The Sari’, she says
“This sari I wear—
You and me.
Women’s journeys
Spin my body.
Fold your pleats;
We are one and many.
Parted by generations,
We are the same:
A diaspora.
Fabric and fabrication”. (The Sari, p 3)
I read three poems about her mother, absolutely benumbed.
“I watch
my mother’s fingers
enveloped
in the giddiness
of creativity
in a game
of memory
Seventy some years
falling away
the pain of
rheumatoid
held at bay
for now she is a young girl
writing her life
into meaning. [I watch my Mother’s Fngers, p 14]
“My mother
said
I could climb
the Himalayas
if I wanted to
That she would
climb with me
With my polio
and her arthritis
we did not need
too much help
Only perhaps a shift of the mind” [Together, P 16]
I could almost see the
inspiring mother’s hand on the daughter’s head, boosting her sagging spirits
through her wise words.
In Swordswomen [p 17], she
talks of her mother’s ‘tenuous tenacity’ and her own ‘tranquil
temerity’ –
‘a pair of mothers caring
absurdly fighting for the same thing.
Poised swordswomen.’
Two accompanying photographs of the poet as a small girl, holding her
mother’s hand, and another of her mother standing in solitary splendor, wrung
my heart.
The second section, Body, pulsates with
evocative poetic eloquence and intense yearnings. We listen to the notes of ‘a
song braided in the breeze’, see her opening herself, longingly
touching soft cottons and shimmering threads of saris, ears riveted to songs of
a country, left behind.
With her, we trace the contours of chunks of selves ‘gathering moss
on hidden pathways’, and try reading the
“Footnotes of a journey
still lingering
on a page [Footnotes of a Journey, p 21]
We salute the poet as she comes to
terms with her ‘body and its recalcitrance’ and stays anchored while the
world clashes, involved in a
“Biological warfare
of
daily violence.”[Biological warfare, p 36]
She writes about loneliness, peace, courage beauty, home,
and homelessness, with a very sensitive minimalism.
“the elsewhere
of home
……………..
slips in and out,
a startled gazelle
“across a landscape of home
less
Ness
[The Elsewhere of Home, p 42]
Survivor Labels, p 44, is another poem that shook me completely.
“You who wait on the sidelines,
waiting
for us to fall and falter;
you are ready
with new labels:
“The Handicapped.”
In Our Bodies Remember, P 47, it
is a sad poet talking about the loss of compassion and sensitivity in human
beings.
“our bodies
………
are slowly
forgetting
to twitch in pain …
our bodies…
slowly
remember
the carnival
that was humanity.”
The poems The Drink p 48 and Chai Tea p 49,
are not just sprinkled with cardamom, ginger, and nostalgia, but also with
dollops of humour:
“At the Customs
the dog sniffed at my feet
and my suitcase
stuffed with masala chai,
when I called back my mother,
that night, I told her
the chai had passed
the customs, the dogs,
the guards at the gates
of America…”
In Returning, p 50, she says,’
“returning is a desire we ache to hold,
……….
In that space of back and forth,
We tread a lifetime of longing.”
In the third section Edge, we find her, gently
‘probing the pain to the precipice’ pulling out ‘weeds from
the crevices of living’, the’ rituals of loss’ aching her.
Some poems are potent punches, making the reader scream at the horrors
unfolding- war, violence, feticide, natural disasters, suicide bombings and
missing girls.
The words in Global Death p 73, left me shocked.
“Hotel collapses
In Mecca, Saudi Arabia.
15 Al Hajj Pilgrims
Dead.
Kerbala dead rising to 45
and maybe more.
5 people injured
on train derailment
at Humphries?
The news is alive
with the stink
of
global
death”.
The book haunts,
and I found the essence of her poems, in the following lines-
‘Two worlds,
Two hemispheres,
Two continents,
Two dreams intertwined.
I draw a line,
Loop it in a circle.
Two spaces carved for
The resident and
The itinerant self.’ [The Oil Lamp, p 62]
The book
ends with a heartfelt plea from the poet:
“Make of me
no fairy tales,
no songs,
no memorials.
Just braid me
in your hair
and, once in a while,
s e
m l
iiiiii” [My Wish, P 76]
The passionate
intensity of the unfiltered eruptions is so palpable that one finds one’s own
pulse beating with nostalgia, love, and indignation, simultaneously, trying to
understand the myriad nuances and textures- bitter-sweet, tangy, sour,
satirical, sad, and metaphorically profound.
With an invisible sleight of hand,
she tenderly etches crisp, poignant details in her impressively
measured, minimalistic style. I found myself saluting the enduring pride
and indomitable spirit of a resilient woman, characterized by a
never-say-die spirit and exemplary intrepidity.
Aesthetically designed, embellished with sepia-tinted
photographs, and sketches, the book is a treasure. I often stopped
midway, trying to inhale the essence of a particular poem and doff my hat to
the poet’s creative ingenuity. Words can be honed
into exquisite poetry in the hands of a deft wordsmith- and she has done that
commendably well.
The introduction
and preface have been amazingly well-crafted, and as one closes the book, one
realizes that one has just finished a journey, not only of discovery but of
edifying rediscovery and resurrection.
Author Bio:
Pushpa Naidu Parekh, PhD, is a Professor of English and Director of African
Diaspora and the World program at Spelman College, Atlanta, Georgia. An
award–winning poet, she has taught and published in the areas of British,
postcolonial [including African and South Asian Diaspora Studies], and US
immigration literatures. Her work has been published in various creative
journals, and collections and she has contributed to the Atlanta Indian
Community Journal, Khabar.
Author Website: https://www.pushpanaiduparekh.com
Publisher Website: www.archwaypublishing.com
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