Touch
About this book
Once again after long years of search I came into contact with the power of honest poetry when I was reading Meena Kandasamy's anthology of verse. She wove a fabric rare and strange, faintly smudged with the Indianness of her thought that saw even the monsoons come leisurely strolling like decorated temple elephants. The unseen lover weaves his way into every poem she cries but she must write about him forgetting the shame and the embarrassment it would cause for somehow it seems better than not writing anything at all. An infidel s emptiness, a void closing over voids... Dying and then resurrecting herself again and again in a country that refuses to forget the unkind myths of caste and perhaps of religion, Meena carries as her twin self, her shadow the dark cynicism of youth that must help her to survive. Happiness is a hollow world for fools to inhabit cries Meena at a moment of revelation. Revelations come to her frequently and prophecies linger at her lips. Older by nearly half a century, I acknowledge the superiority of her poetic vision and wish her access to the magical brew of bliss and tears each true poet is forced to partake of, day after day, month after month, year after year... — Kamala Das