Songs/Poems

From above

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / Leave a comment

DCA to SJC

Below me

rippling lands push north

and beyond to the west

the sun hangs above

the unseen sea, covered

with its cotton robe

 

I am in love with  the sun.

Land is the myth.

Sky and sun

are all that is known.

 

SJC to DCA

In this flying box

I can close the window

and live in the mundane.

Beige walls, scratchy seats.

My eyelids close heavily

and the hours fly by.

 

Open lids, open shades.

We move homeward.

A brief rainbow  hangs

in midair and I can only

imagine what it looks like

from the ground.

 

 

 

Worm Catcher

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / Leave a comment

I wake up early.  My parents are snoring in their bedroom. I peep in. Daddy curled over on his side, shirtless.  Deep belly breathing.  Mommy sleeps with one eye open. Doctors on call always do. She lies flat on her back. Her hands are clasped together as if holding a phone. She is ready to spring up, but doesn’t.  No calls came tonight.

Early morning light paints the hallway yellow-orange.  I pee with the door open because I am alone but don’t want to be.  I crawl back into my bed and close my eyes.  I wish I could still be asleep, but I am not.  My stuffed bunny and I talk about breakfast and what’s on tv.  We get up and stand at the top of the stairs.

I am scared of those stairs.  I am not sure what I am scared of.  Downstairs is tv, and food.  Upstairs the comfort of warm, breathing parents nearby. The stairs creak.  The stairs are steep.  The stairs are dark and the wood is smooth, almost slippery.  Peril. Danger. The front door to the house sits at the foot of the stairs.  Warm light pours in through the small square windows. But I cannot see the couch, the carpet, the living room from here.

What if it’s not there? What if this is a dream?  What if they hear me and wake up?  I want their company, but it’s 5am, they need their sleep, and I want this time.  To watch The Great Space Coaster, to eat cinnamon and sugar toast, to sing my own silly songs.

I clutch my bunny to me and take a breath. I sit on the top step. Today I will slide down even though I am six and can walk down the stairs like a big girl. This way I can be safe. I can be quiet. I can watch the light change. I can peer through the slats of the rail into the silence of the living room.  I can watch for the signs.  It’s what I do every morning. I am the early bird.  I am the worm catcher.

 

Naturalized.

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 2 Comments

Born in New Delhi, capital city

of the largest democracy

in the world.

Raised in Delaware, first state

to ratify the constitution

of the USA.

Chose to become, U. S citizen

on my 21st birthday.

Relinquished allegiance

Pledged allegiance

Listened to the speaker

U.S. war veteran

telling us all

to speak English only

from now on.

Wondered why

I had chosen

a land of one language

over the land of 100 tongues.

Posed for pictures.

Voted for change.

Watched towers burn.

Mourned with my countrymen

but feared persecution

by the Real Americans.

All the while

lyrics swim in my head

from the dozen fireworks displays

of my youth.

“I am proud to be an American,

where at least I know I am free…

and I’ll gladly stand up, next to you.”

But sometimes I still wonder,

will you stand up next to me?

 

 

Missing pieces

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / Leave a comment

When I was young,

I wished to be old.

When I was there,

I wished to be here.

When I was single,

I wished for him.

Now he is here,

and sometimes,

I wish for just me.

Sometimes,

I wish the kids were grown.

Sometimes,

I wish I was just my own.

But then wouldn’t I just wish

for times gone by,

when I sang the children

lullabyes?

Or maybe the puzzle is always complete.

In each moment we live.

We are whole.

We are here.

We are with who we are with.

We are doing what we are doing.

Maybe there are no missing pieces.

Maybe.

Something about Shashi

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There’s something silly about Shashi

Something strange. Something queer.

When she’s here, she wants there.

When she’s there she wants here.

 

There’s something odd about Shashi

Something hard to define.

Shashi’s heart has two homes

She lives life on the line.

 

There’s something sad about Shashi.

Something making her sigh.

She left there to come here.

But she can’t say goodbye.

 

There’s something changed about Shashi.

Something strong, something true

Though her heart says, “Go back there.”

She can’t leave without you.

I am the Child of Music

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“Sing. Sing a song.  Sing out loud. Sing out strong.  Don’t worry that it’s not good enough for anyone else to hear.  Just sing. Sing a song. “ – Sesame Street

I am the Music Hour Lady.  One hour of the day, one day a month, for the last two years I have led babies, toddlers, and other stay at home moms in song.  “Stomp your feet. Clap your hands. Everybody ready for a barnyard dance.” I talk to the children in a cheerful sing song voice.  I belt out nonsense lyrics at the top of my voice, with my son tucked on my hip. “I like to oat, oat, oat, opples and banonos.” I row my pretend boat around the room, going faster, and faster, and faster. I feel like I am 6 years old again, older than the babies, but still little enough to truly love this moment. But I am not 6 years old.  I am the Music Hour Lady.

I am the Hot Guitar Playing Indian Chick.  I sit in the stairwell of my dorm with my guitar.  I am learning to play my favorites – Dar Williams, Indigo Girls, Patty Griffin.  Sometimes I sing at the open mic night on campus.  I know I am not the best singer or guitar player.  My friends who play are serious and I’m pretty sure that they will keep Doing Music for the rest of their lives. My songs are for me.  “I fell in love with the man in the moon. And that man can ride a dragon.”    They are there for me when I need them.  I write songs when the mood strikes. “Turn around and your standing there, stalking me.”  but I forget to write them down. “Grandma wears bangles. Gold on paper skin.” They are just for now, just for here. 

I am the Drum Major.  “We’re not #5, not #4, #3, #2.  We’re #1. CHS!”   The football team is not doing so well this season, but it doesn’t matter.  The band will be there to cheer them on. I raise my arms up in the air. “Horns up!” Let’s give the crowd something to cheer about.  At halftime we march onto the field.  I step up on the podium.  I feel the eyes of a hundred musicians on me.  When I move, the dance begins. Bodies swirl across the field, and music pours into the stadium.  We are the screensaver for the game. We maintain the energy and enthusiasm of the fans until the second half.  We are the Concord high school marching band.

I am the Child of Music. It is late at night, but I am still awake. It is the summer after 1st grade. I am in an apartment in Madras in India. The air is heavy like a thick wet blanket. The room is open with very little furniture.  My head is resting on my mother’s lap. My father sits on the floor across from us, a guitar in his hands. There are a dozen or so others in the room,  women in colorful saris and salwar kameez, men in pants and short sleeve button down shirts.  Everyone’s feet are bare. Everyone sits on the floor. Some clutch knees to their bodies. Others legs splay out at their sides. Some sit cross legged and upright.  I am sleepy.  The room has been filled with music all night. My father finished singing and playing a moment ago. “I am just a poor boy though my story is seldom told. ”  Now it is my mother’s turn.  She clears her throat first like she always does.  She rubs my head gently. She closes her eyes as she sings.  “Mere ghar aye ek naan paare.”  It is a lullabye of sorts, my favorite. She sings of a beautiful fairy who appears at her window.  Everyone around her sighs.  I nestle my head into the space between her waist and her thigh and fall asleep. The night of music has just begun.

three worlds

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 2 Comments

World One

homeland, old country, country of origin

the place where mother’s mother lives

the place where things make more sense

the “where you came from” when they say

“go back to where you came from.”

World Two

the adopted homeland, the country of presents and futures

the place where mother’s body lives

the place where things are what they are

where i grew up: Wilmington, Delaware

a place to be somebody

World Three

immigrant’s house, the space in between, home

where mother speaks Tamil and I answer in English

the place where we can rest

from the push and pull

of all the worlds, and all the selves, and all the homes.

 

 

 

I did not know I was beautiful

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 4 Comments

I did not know I was beautiful when the photographer taking pre-school pictures said, “Aww.  Your hair is so long.  What a beautiful little Hawaiian girl. Say “Aloha”.

I did not know I was beautiful when I went to the beach and all of the other kids had to wear sunscreen to keep from getting too dark.

I did not know I was beautiful when it was fitness week in my fifth grade class and we all had to weigh ourselves and I weighed over 100lbs.

I did not know I was beautiful when my mother caught me looking nervously at my pre-teen reflection in the mirror and asked me, with fear in her voice,  if I wished that I was White.

I did not know I was beautiful when I was the only one of my friends who did not have a date to homecoming.

I did not know I was beautiful when my highschool boyfriend told me that he could not get too serious because I was not Christian.

I did not know I was beautiful when my Asian college boyfriend dumped me and started dating my White roommate.

I did not know I was beautiful, but I was.

So I started wearing my nose ring and the sparkle offset my eyes.

So I got a tatoo over my heart reminding me of what lies inside.

So I learned to care for my body with kindness, and attention, and movement.

So I surrounded myself with people whose beauty radiated from within.

Then my boyfriend said, “I choose you, and choose you, and choose you.

Then I heard friends say “Your daughter is so beautiful. She looks just like you.”

I did not know I was beautiful, so I made myself feel beautiful, and then people told me I was beautiful, and now I know that I am beautiful… sometimes.

Going home

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 2 Comments

Delaware:

The kids sleep in my old bedroom.  I sleep in the guest room.  There are rooms to spare and we spread our things  across the house knowing it will take hours to find them again when it is time to leave. My parents get up in the morning and do the same things they have always done.  Dad’s arms sway up and out and down to the floor.  He stretches to get the blood flowing.  Mom lights the candle on her altar, says a quick prayer under her breath as the kettle sings its insistent song.  “I am ready! I am hot!”  She makes the first of three cups of morning coffee. Each one will be left in an unknown location in the house, two-thirds full, stolen away by the coffee elves.  The kitchen smells of incense, and cumin, and burnt toast.   The floor is cold.  My kids run around, and around, and around from the kitchen, into the hallway, into the dining room, and back into the kitchen.  Outside, I hear leaves rustling, acorns drop, birds twitter.

Delhi:

For the first week I am groggy. Day is night and I cannot keep my eyes open. I have never been good at dealing with changes in sleep.  The air is thick with the smell of dust, and sun, and people.  Vendors sell vegetables and hot chai. They sing their insistent songs, “Hot chai!  Ready! Good price!”  I roll out my mat to sleep on.  The floor is hard, but I soon become accustomed to sleeping this way with my cousins nearby.  I wander the streets during the day, to market and back.  I am absorbed into my uncle’s family.  We catch auto rickshaws to go to see a movie.  The roads are jammed with people and cars and motorbikes and animals. I can hardly hear myself think.

D.C.

The sun pours in through our windows into our living room, amplified by the yellow of our walls.  It is a cozy apartment.  Living room bleeds into dining area into kitchen.  Two tiny bedrooms tucked away at the back of the apartment hold all our things and all our dreams.  High shelves keep cherished books away from tiny hands.  On nice days, we choose which playground to go to.  Our playground? The school playground? The far away playground?  On rainy days, the children roam the hallway in our building, imagining worlds behind doors.  Outside, birds, sirens, hammers, helicopters, and neighbors all shout for attention.  “We are here! See us working!”

Consciousness

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / Leave a comment

I didn’t know,

and then I did.

I am not you.

We are not them.

This is not right.

 

We should fight.

We should shine a light.

We should make it right.

 

I didn’t know

And then I did.

I am not alone.

You are here with me.

We are all not free.

This is not right.

 

We should fight.

We should shine a light.

We should make it right.

 

I did not know

and then I did.

I am here to fight.

I will shine a light.

I can make it right.

We can make it right.

 

We will make it right.