Be peaceful; he will return.

Nature as a metaphorical device against feudalism in Elippathayam (1981).

পথের পাঁচালী Pather Panchali, Song of the Little Road (1955) / എലിപ്പത്തായം Elippathayam, Rat-Trap (1982)

കൊടിയേറ്റം Kodiyettam, The Ascent (1977)

കൊടിയേറ്റം Kodiyettam, The Ascent (1977)

“I wanted the audience to feel that nobody ‘directed’ Kodiyettam. No manipulation at any level. This is the impression I wanted to convey.”

—Adoor Gopalakrishnan

എലിപ്പത്തായം Elippathayam, Rat-Trap (1982)

At night we sleep with the windows bolted
in spite of the sweat,
in the women’s quarter,
elder sister and I.
The old house settles on my chest
like the grinding stone she uses each day
to make chili paste. My pale hands
burn my body.
Outside I can hear the kaju trees
growing, green poison, toward the house.
Today, again, brother
refused an offer for elder sister’s marriage:
Not good enough
for our family name.
Now from the main room, her frog-snores,
while night leaches the black from her hair,
cracks open the edges of her eyes.

I wait for the rat. In the passage
the coconut sliver I hooked onto the trap
is a thin white smile, moon
to my dark nights. Soon,
the clatter of the wooden slat falling,
the shrill squeaks, the frantic
skittering claws. Then silence.

In the morning, the huge eyes, glint-black,
will watch me as I carry the cage
through palms whose jagged leaves
splinter the sky.
Monsoon mud sucks at my feet. The pink,
hairless tail twitches. The green pond
closes over my wrist.
The cage convulses, quiets.
A few bubbles, stillness.
I know how it is.
I open the trapdoor. The limp brown body
thuds onto the ash heap
next to the others. The red ants swarm.
I watch and watch, then run
all the way home.

After bath, in front of the great gilt mirror,
grandmother’s wedding dowry,
elder sister combs the wet dark
down my back. I press on my forehead,
for luck, vermillion paste
like a coin of blood,
check my white teeth.
They look smaller, sharper, rodent-honed.
Our eyes meet, glint black, in the smoky mirror.
Red ants swarm up my spine.

—The Rat-Trap by Chitra Divakaruni

Basheer, the Man (1987)