I who have lost
My way and beg now at stranger's doors to
Receive love, at least in small exchange?
Finally, you are dead my dear woman.
Now you don't have to listen to anything. Neither abuses which come out from the repressed sexual frustrations of the great middle class mallu nor the praises from the nostalgia freaks.
You are not a nostalgia storehouse for me. I do not understand the punnayoorkkulam or neermathalam of yours. I do not belong there. What draws me to you is the way you tell the tales, the magic you add to the words. When I read you, Kamla, I do not need to know whether 'My Story' is true or not. I do not have to know the truths or lies to love you. You cannot survive in Kerala unless you try to testify that the whole fiction was an outright lie. I get the point, woman.
You are our own woman. You cannot blame them for not loving you and leave the place as if they never loved you. They did. In every single abuse they wrote, some one had his little summit of pleasure. Voyeurs are after all lovers engaged in a 'one way traffic love' and abuse is yet another manifestation. Yes, Malayalees loved you. (When MJ told me about the voyeuristic obituaries, Oh, nothing else was expected at her death) Look at the obscene undertones of the obituaries they write for you which comes out through the various media tongues... Woman, they are still loving you.