Kamala Das

Kamala, all the time hear I complaining against your husband And you after the things of your own In a very confessional way, Interpreting the sexual dreams of yours, Feeling the heat of the Indian summer not, Nor the siestas of it When the loo, heat wave blows it hard Sucking blood, drooping down with sunstroke But talk you in a very sensuous way about the summer of the body, The hunger of the body, You in sweat and perspiration Talking of bodily heat and summer And putting the allegation around That your spouse is not good enough And the critics believing you blindly Which but I cannot accept it. Do whatever you have to, but blackmail not anyone And if this be, why did you not allow your husband To say the things of his Rather you saying them all yourself, Only then the things would have come out Otherwise the things will remain one-sided, Give us the chance to verify them. Whatever say you, I cannot believe you, Kamala, Maybe you an awardee poetess, Have won laurels and accolades For your womanly poetry, But don’t, don’t think it so That there are no learned men like you, Your histrionics, we can understand it well, What you are, you yourself too cannot understand it, Always trying to be in the media limelight. Kamala, are you a poetess of the body, not the soul, Are you spiritually sick, Are you mad after sex, Are you normal, this say you, Who are you, who are you, Radha, Or, are you Mira, Who are you, Kamala? Are you a shisya of Achara Rajneesh Explaining sambhoga to samadhi, Are you a reader of Vatsyayana’s Kamsuttra Or of D.H.Lawrence’s guru-shisya prem And mother-son fixation psychological story, Who are you, who are you, Kamala, Say you? .