Of mothers, among other things - A. K. Ramanujan

I have long been wanting to blog about what I've been reading, listening and seeing i.e., I don't just want to blog about my views and and experiences but also put forward my thoughts on the books I read, the films I watch and the music I hear. In that regard, here is a beginning.

'Of mothers among other things' is a poem by A.K. Ramanujan. Accurate description of physical objects, vivid imagery and an intense affinity towards his childhood experiences in India are characteristics of his poetry. What I find most appealing when I read Ramanujan's poetry is his tone. It is not his magnificence that sweeps the reader but what arrests the mind is his matter of fact tone. With many subtle hints to tell us of his inclinations or neutralities, he weaves dark humour, subtle irony, dry facts, first hand experiences, a spectacularly subcontinental vocabulary and rustic realism into beautiful verse forms which may not often rhyme but always carry a rythmic sense.

So I have taken a poem of his - 'Of mothers, among other things' and have recited it here:

Youtube - Ramanujan's poetry

In case you are not familiar with the poem, please do listen to it to enjoy the following paragraph better.

My views on the poem:

Ramanujan is an expert in the description of physical objects. He notices trees, rays and the texture of things with a keen eye. The whole poem revolves around the act of his mother rushing back from the rains to tend to the crying voice in the cradle and picking up a grain of rice from the floor. The images this action invokes in the author's mind followed by the tides of memories that arise which in turn push forth a torrent of emotions amalgamates into a moving verse form. This is a feeling that would bring a lump in the throat of many readers, especially to those hailing from the subcontinent where due to tradition or social set up, the selflessness of mothers and the sacrifices of women reach unbelievable proportions. The tragedy of the 'mother's' life is also brought forth in the poem when he mentions that one of her fingers became permanently crippled because of accidentally getting caught up in a mouse trap in the garden. He does this, as in many of his other poems such as 'Obituary', in a conversational tone, hardly making a fuss.

Ramanujan's description of the light which emerges from the tasselled gaps of tree leaves and hits the three diamonds of his mother's rings and then bursts forth into a 'handful of needles' is spectacular imagery. In his own words, Ramanujan says 'English and my disciplines (linguistics and anthropology) give me my outer forms...; my thirty years in India, my frequent visits and field trips, my personal and professional preoccupations with Kannada, Tamil, the classics and folklore give me my substance, my inner forms, images and symbols. They are continuous with each other and I can no longer tell what comes from where.'

The kaleidoscopic pattern in his poems brings forth the vigour and colour of India with all its oddities and distinctions. The beauty of Ramanujan's English narrated with vernacular fluidity, sometimes complemented by accurate scholarship and at other times by deeply felt emotions and scenes go into the making of many a literary gem.