Anuradha Vijayakrishnan
I was born in Cochin, India. I have a Bachelor's degree in Chemical Engineering along with an MBA from XLRI, Jamshedpur and pursue a full time career with an MNC bank. I have received training in Carnatic music and nurse a passion for music and dance.
My fiction and poetry have appeared in print and online publications like Stony Thursday Anthology, The King's English, Bare Root Review, Desilit, Eclectica, Orbis and Aesthetica. A short story ‘Narayani’s journey’ was also included in the New Writing 14 anthology brought out by Granta. In India my work has been published in Femina, Indian Literature and Muse India.
In 2005 I was invited to read my work at Muse Meet, the writers’ meet organized by Muse India in Hyderabad. One of my poems made the final shortlist of the 2006 Euphoria poetry contest. Very recently, my novel manuscript Seeing the Girl was picked up in the long list for the 2007 Man Asian Literary Prize. This novel is my first attempt at long fiction.
I work and live in Chennai along with my husband and little daughter. I have begun work now on a second novel and dream all the while of having a collection of poems published some day.
- One More Thing
The river and the road went back
a long way.
They were born in the same old hills
and knew each other by shape and unformed sound
much before they knew who they were
or how far they would go.
They learnt to run on the same secret slippery
slopes, taught each other to laugh out loud
when it rained and the hills wobbled.
To speak the hooded language of tall tree spirits
and duck under each other’s arms
when the sky turned an unfamiliar colour.
Together they learnt to flow -
Smouldering clumps of rocks waited to smile
at them and a sleepy bird heading home
gave them a song
no one had ever heard before.
Then of course the day grew older,
the forest thinner, the air thicker.
It was a sudden bend that broke them
up. Sliced them apart
and set them on their own smoke
and oil filled destiny
The river died young, wasted.
The road still lives somewhere, almost.
The road and the river, I heard about them
from my grandmother. She said she knew them well
when they were all young. Maybe, she did.
Anuradha Vijayakrishnan (MuseIndia magazine)
2. Housewarmed
In that room we boiled milk in a little saucepan, made black
tea, poured it into bright yellow mugs,
breathed hungrily off the sinuous pungent steam
like it could heal our marauded earth
or at least soften the ridges on our hearts.
In that room of many shapes
we put Baby on the counter, let her play
with bags of flaming carrots
and tomatoes in full bloom bought just that morning.
Piled our washing in a corner and our ironing on chairs;
wiped the floor clean before and after meals;
lined the windowsill
with little potted plants full of hearty grace.
And covered the mouldy spots on the walls
with kindness and some coloured cloth.
That room had so much space,
it could take all of our crying and laughing,
then wait eagerly for more. It had places
of forgiving silence and silent strength,
those little dreamlike pools
you could walk into without drowning
or losing the dignity of anger.
Sometimes it is easy to see
why we had to grow out of that room,
the one we still write about.
Sometimes, it is not.
Anuradha Vijayakrishnan (Muse India magazine)
3. Not a requiem ( Muse India magazine)
Forget, I tell the dust.
Go with the rising wind
or the setting sun or the dreaming fog.
Go, just go, with the empty road
the bleaching bone,
the spinning earth,
or even the chanting mourners
who always go with each other
trailing bits of smoke.
Forget the stories.
Move on quickly, run
before the ground shifts
and the weight
of all that you were,
all that became you,
all that you remember,
crushes you down
turns you
without irony
into dust,
magnificent, under the feet.
Anuradha Vijayakrishnan (Muse India magazine)
4. Named
In that city, they name
houses, they actually do.
The easy choices
are the ones that look well on metal
gates the colour of moss
and pride. These could run from gods
and the names of wives to copied
dreams, twists of words shaped into songs, birds, jokes
or even the first lines of nursery rhymes.
Beside those black boards that speak
in ornate syllables, the muddiness of the path
is familiar. So is the skeptical sky.
But what is most comforting is that in that city
where they name houses after memories
and unborn children, you could find one named
for the little river you grew up with. The one
that knows the name you found
for yourself on a marooned day, when the world
looked like a lonely child.
Anuradha Vijayakrishnan (Eclectica magazine)
5. Yellow Magic
This kind of thing cannot be spoken about.
It has to be wrapped up in layers of warm banana
leaves, tucked under the arm and slipped in
under cover of smoke and fire.
Then it could be left in front of the lost mirror,
with the coins and keys and the patches
of talcum spilled yesterday when the heat rose and absolutely
nothing would work, not the new air conditioner,
not the secret troves of coolness stashed
between stacks of cotton sheets kept washed
just in case. Or it can be thrown
into the grass left uncut since
that day, grass grown so tall now that anything
can hide or be hidden in it and not a shadow
will spill, not a wave will show, not a scream will tell
the story of this. Of how the mud trembles underfoot
as if yellow eyes can see everything and clawed
feet can run.
But if there is a rustle of anger and a light wind rises,
it will spread. Color the mud red. Spread
like madness, oh it will.
Anuradha Vijayakrishnan (Eclectica magazine)
- Butcher
I used to think he killed birds
for a living. He had grey eyes, strange colour
for the skin he wore under tight red t-shirts
and occasional checked neck scarves. Twisted
into a double knot that could
kill if twisted any more.
I used to walk by, munching peanut candy and watching
for feathers. Floating wisps of birds with the bleeding
heads piled in the garbage somewhere. Black,
blue, brown, the color of fresh bruises
on my skin where I had fallen from
the swing the other day. Flying too high
and crying so wildly when
the chain swung loose.
He used to lean over the wooden table, hands
stock still. The spots of blood were
under his palms and the smile we traded
was pale bone white. Sometimes
there would be blood trails on my feet
too. And his gray eyes used to wait
for my fear, before reaching for the knife.
Anuradha Vijayakrishnan (The Pedestal Magazine)
7. At War
Dip your head, she warns me, when you walk
and let the fireflies pass. The spark in their eyes
could be real fire; you could burn, your hair
could crackle and char. The smell
will be terrible and nothing will wash
it off, not even my tears or the best
soap we could buy in these parts.
She is full of warnings today, singing them
out because that way we will remember them
better. And her tunes buzz like brave
mosquitoes when we don’t listen.
When we stumble the sand tastes of salt, the salt
of a sea now far receded. A sea brimming
with white waves and blue fish imagined
with perfect wings.
We are walking on uneven ground, pebbles
rolling angrily out of our way. But we walk like giants
here, swinging our arms, shouldering the skies lightly.
And she goes off-key-humming how
red hibiscus when alone is dangerous, how
it kills with the purple poison given it by the gods
we think we worship.
She is full of warnings today
and we bend to let them pass, because we are ones
that wish no land and nobody any harm.
Anuradha Vijayakrishnan (Bare Root Review magazine)
8. Kalam Painters Seen In A Dream
First they spun out
deep nests of yellow and white lines
on the ground
then poured in colour after colour
till there was enough to start a fire
Around this in a circle they planted
young green torches
with slim waists orange hair and so tall they
went right through the sky
For red they chose the red of demon's tongues
and children's blood
and some of the red that hides in the heart
of the angry woman and the laughing woman
mixed with a few drops of the tangy red
that drips from ripped out heads and fresh hibiscus flowers
For brown they picked the many shades that nestle
in the sandy footprints
of sleepless homeless fable tellers
For blue they mixed pure light into sweet simple poison
and for black they closed their eyes
Then they let the sun set and
without mercy
lit a thousand lamps unleashed a thousand hungry drums
Waved their long arms once
and drew us into their night
to join the hungry dance of gods
Anuradha Vijayakrishnan (DesiLit magazine) |
