Two Poems by Syam Sudhakar

The winner of the Srinivas Rayaprol Poetry Prize 2022, Syam Sudhakar is a bilingual poet who hails from Palakkad district of Kerala, India. Writing in both English and Malayalam, his native tongue, Syam has been widely published in many languages including Chinese, French, Tamil and Bengali. Earpam (Damp) and Avasanathe Kollimeen (The Last Meteor) in Malayalam, Drenched by the Sun in English, Slicing the Moon (a bilingual video rendering), Syam Sudhakar Kavithaikal (Poems of Syam Sudhakar) in Tamil and Samudrer Prahari (Keeper of the Sea) in Bengali, form the list of his major poetry collections along with many other works which have been published online and offline. He has also edited and translated numerous works from English to Malayalam. Holding a PhD in English Literature from the University of Madras, Syam is presently based in Kerala, teaching and researching South Indian poetry.

1

Death of Mr. Jenet

It’s been many years.
Biju, Kannan, Manu,
Sravan, Eldos, Jijo—
you have all scattered
to different realms.
Yet I feel like
telling you today
about what happened
in that room
while you were sleeping
one night.
I want to tell you why Jenet,
all at once,
went up to the terrace
and howled
like a ship;
why he went down
into the water tank that night
without telling anyone;
how on that night
the blood ran free
while sleep had clotted your brains;
why the scream
dressed like me
left the house
for a short while that night.
I want to tell you
how the hungry sea
lapped up the blood
on the broken shards of our flowerpot,
how my curiosity descended
the stairs to the underworld
through the trapdoor
in my blue almirah,
like an apple falling down
the throat of death,
like a bunch of keys
thrown down the borewell
by a mischievous child.

A silver apparition of Jenet
offered to the sea years ago
now haunts my dreams,
sprinkles salt in the coils of my brain.
It asks me to tell the six of you
why, like a country that fires
into its neighbour’s chest,
I had thrown the flowerpot that night
right on his head
just to experience
the pleasure of killing.

2 

Dismas from Room No. 222

I turn my head 45° left
from the room
I had entered to steal—
A beautiful sight through the open window.

In a single frame
I see
the statue of Thomas
(gleaming in silver)
gazing up at the
towering cross of
the faraway church.

I look again.
There in the downpour stands
bleeding Jesus and
confused Thomas.
I go down to greet them.

Together we cross
the Indo-Gothic arch.
Fifty-one huge windows
and six doors
open at once—
a path to salvation.

After roaming about for a bit
we reach the first cellar.
Thomas asks:
In which year was this built?
Where did you get the tile from?
When did it burn?
Casualties?

As we go down the stairs
the entire set of paper records
dissolves into dust.
Words and headlines
turn into moths
Time scatters as mist
The ancestors become rooftops
A huge bell
hangs tongueless.

We descend to the second cellar.
The heady scent of ripe grapes
assaults the senses.
The key to liberty
hidden in the grail of knowledge
a handful of grain
stuffed inside a matchbox;
Like an ancient war tunnel
a path opens downwards—
We watch the torches
light up one by one.
Thomas sees a thousand
confusing roads ahead.
He is irritated at the
many evidences in front—
stone pillars,
hoof marks,
blood stained spears,
ripped records.
He tries to steady his breath
like a sail fighting a storm
and in between mumbles:
Blessed are the ones who believe.

As we descend to
the third cellar
Jesus, exhausted from the constant
ascensions and descensions, asks:
Thomas, you alone didn’t come that night, why?

Thomas replies:
You are the one who has seen light
since the beginning.
I was busy
building a cathedral for you.
Through it I have opened
the way to the sky
and you are the key.

Thomas found a key
from his ribs
and the door to the
third cellar opened.
Blinding light filled the view as
Thomas was freed to eternity.

With a middle-class plea to remember me
when the kingdom comes
I sit in this room No. 222,
praying only for myself.

*