Kamala Das is regarded as one of the few female writers of her time whose writings were assertive on the “Feministic” and pro-female issues. She wrote openly about the challenges faced by a woman in a patriarchal society and boycotted the unjust practices through her poems, novels and short stories. She broke a new ground with a poetic expression that made the male audience alert about a new stance that was in the process of emerging at the time.
Her poem, An Introduction, carves out a distinct sense of ‘SELF’, who wishes not to be straitjacketed into one position but wills to create her own space. As the name suggests, the poem intends to introduce the Women to a well uplifted persona of themselves. They are the stakeholders, not only of the household chores but of the alfresco world too. She dreams of a society where women can speak any language they want at any time and any place, where they are not ‘directed’ to play a meek role in the real life. Our society has been patriarchal ever since its origin. There have been Queens and other female rulers, but their lives too were influenced, or to be precise, addicted by the male strategizers. Kamala Das aspired of breaking the stereotypical image of women being a subject of fulfilling the desires of men. Her pro-feminist approach lays the foundation of a new and better world for Women. In her poem, she talks about the knowledge and wisdom of a woman. She believes that there is much more to a woman’s life than being confined between the course walls of CRITICISM, PATRIARCHY, SUBJUGATION & AGGRAVATION. She use strong versesin her poem for the sensitive message to be delivered to the masses with corrupt minds. She talks about how society influence the life of a woman to the extents of deciding her future in which there is no consent of her own, from being told to speak ‘like a lady’ to being advised not to love a person, accentuately a man, of her own cull but her parents.
“WHEN I ASKED FOR LOVE, NOT KNOWING WHAT ELSE TO ASK,
HE DREW A YOUTH OF SIXTEEN INTO THE BEDROOM AND CLOSED THE DOOR,
HE DID NOT BEAT ME,
BUT MY SAD WOMAN BODY FELT SO BEATEN.“
This verse unveils the demon, a demon hunting and haunting the woman of our society to abduct their soul. Women are sexually assaulted even in their tender years which leaves an impact so sinister to leave them glum over it for the rest of their lives. And what is ironical of the prelature is that the Women themselves are victimized for being assaulted instead of receiving the medical and the mental aid of which they are in imperative need of. A woman is no one’s toy to satiate the sexual desires or to fulfill the vile desires of a family as a bonded slave who is veiled by the pious omphales of WIVES. They are not meant to be submissive and polite to anyone without a good, real good reason. Women are the torch bearers of this society who deserve to be respected, not tormented. There should not be sympathy form them in our minds but we must empathize from heart for the ones in need. A woman is an individual who has her own identity other than being someone’s daughter, mother, wife or whatever.
She is on her own, She is I.
” I AM THE BELOVED AND THE BETRAYED,
I HAVE NO JOYS THAT ARE NOT YOURS,
NO ACHES WHICH ARE NOT YOURS.
I TOO CALL MYSELF I.“
I don’t know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I amIndian, very brown, born inMalabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don’t write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don’t
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
WhenI asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank Pitifully.
Then … I wore a shirt and my
Brother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games.
Don’t play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans’ tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.
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I see her in my dreams.
The Layman's Chronicles 