Soochipara Falls*
And finally
after a long walk
through a forest path we came to a place
from where we could barely see a silver flash
of water spurting over the jagged lip of a rock
it was as though
an old adventurous woman had flung
her long loose braid of hair down
into the pool below
for fun
the thud and tumble of water
so subdued
someone said it was a huge disappointment
and yet we waded in
the summer ambushing us from behind
we splashed around
in the water just reaching up to our waistline
and missed all the while
the mighty commotion
for which we had come
little by little
I could feel something draining away
from the moment
the water’s green burbling and the call of birds
they withdrew to the background as though redundant
even our voices
drowned in the eddies of that silence
and I thought perhaps
that was what the waterfall
was preparing us for
all noise whittled down
to a serenity we couldn’t handle
with the white thread of water
plunging unobtrusively into the gravelly bottom
daring us if only to listen.
* A waterfall in Wayanad, Kerala.
Lovlolika
Remember the shaggy-leaved scramberry tree
murdered in cold blood today. We called it lovlolika
in our mother tongue. Indifferent to etymology,
we took the name to refer to its loving generosity.
All it took were a few well-aimed strokes
of the axe to bring it crashing down all the way
from its buoyant altitude to the ground.
Its long years of perseverance climaxed
in a creak, then a shuddering thud.
It used to stand at this spot bejewelled
with blood-red fruit that children returning home
from school would pluck in tight fistfuls
to nibble with salt, or spill into their mothers’ hands
to pickle in a glass jar. It was never rude
to the birds that whitened its bark
with their droppings, or denied its mottled shade
to the fugitive grass growing under it. It built
its gentle house of leaves with a patience
that was phenomenal, given the rains
were erratic in their masonry, and the sun
parsimonious with electricity. No angry mob
will ever hold its killers to account
or mausoleum mark where it struck root.
Only the wind gropes for its branches now
and feels emptiness grating against its fingertips.
Sambhu Ramachandran is a bilingual poet, translator, short story writer, and academic from Kerala, India. He is currently working as an Assistant Professor of English at N.S.S. College, Pandalam. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Two Thirds North, NonBinary Review, The Bombay Literary Magazine, The Talon Review, The Comstock Review, Global City Review, The Belfast Review, Cantos, and The Tiger Moth Review, among others. His poetry translations have been featured in Another Chicago Magazine and Muse India, and his short stories in A Coup of Owls and The Ultramarine Review. You can reach out to him on Instagram: @sambhuramachandran
And finally
after a long walk
through a forest path we came to a place
from where we could barely see a silver flash
of water spurting over the jagged lip of a rock
it was as though
an old adventurous woman had flung
her long loose braid of hair down
into the pool below
for fun
the thud and tumble of water
so subdued
someone said it was a huge disappointment
and yet we waded in
the summer ambushing us from behind
we splashed around
in the water just reaching up to our waistline
and missed all the while
the mighty commotion
for which we had come
little by little
I could feel something draining away
from the moment
the water’s green burbling and the call of birds
they withdrew to the background as though redundant
even our voices
drowned in the eddies of that silence
and I thought perhaps
that was what the waterfall
was preparing us for
all noise whittled down
to a serenity we couldn’t handle
with the white thread of water
plunging unobtrusively into the gravelly bottom
daring us if only to listen.
* A waterfall in Wayanad, Kerala.
Lovlolika
Remember the shaggy-leaved scramberry tree
murdered in cold blood today. We called it lovlolika
in our mother tongue. Indifferent to etymology,
we took the name to refer to its loving generosity.
All it took were a few well-aimed strokes
of the axe to bring it crashing down all the way
from its buoyant altitude to the ground.
Its long years of perseverance climaxed
in a creak, then a shuddering thud.
It used to stand at this spot bejewelled
with blood-red fruit that children returning home
from school would pluck in tight fistfuls
to nibble with salt, or spill into their mothers’ hands
to pickle in a glass jar. It was never rude
to the birds that whitened its bark
with their droppings, or denied its mottled shade
to the fugitive grass growing under it. It built
its gentle house of leaves with a patience
that was phenomenal, given the rains
were erratic in their masonry, and the sun
parsimonious with electricity. No angry mob
will ever hold its killers to account
or mausoleum mark where it struck root.
Only the wind gropes for its branches now
and feels emptiness grating against its fingertips.
Sambhu Ramachandran is a bilingual poet, translator, short story writer, and academic from Kerala, India. He is currently working as an Assistant Professor of English at N.S.S. College, Pandalam. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Two Thirds North, NonBinary Review, The Bombay Literary Magazine, The Talon Review, The Comstock Review, Global City Review, The Belfast Review, Cantos, and The Tiger Moth Review, among others. His poetry translations have been featured in Another Chicago Magazine and Muse India, and his short stories in A Coup of Owls and The Ultramarine Review. You can reach out to him on Instagram: @sambhuramachandran
