The Madras Book Club comes to Connemara
Deep love for the written word draws them,

They came that day for a story told

And found instead a Poem.

It was the launch of Double Cream, Memsahib?

By Podanur-born Kevin Martin,

An entire story written in verse

Spanning fifty years, and rhymin’.

S Muthiah, stern Captain, MBC

Took mike, called all to order,

Confessed he disliked poetry,

But praised the blushing author.

“I never read the stuff,” Mister Madras said,

“But this book I really liked….

I read it through at one shot,

It really had me psyched.”

(Now you, just before the event,

To him had expressed a careless opinion,

And now you learnt the cost of offhand words,

As a Guru, he’s one in a million.)

For ‘twas then, with mischief aforethought, he ­deliberately added,

“Here’s one however (meaning you) your book
just didn’t work with…”

Realising this, albeit playful, was a gauntlet being flung,

You resolved, with narrowed eyes, to call his bluff forthwith.

So here, in attempted verse (only ‘attempted’, please note!),

Are the events of that day,

As Kevin Martin walked us through

The rhymes that paved his way.

“Do buy the book,” the author twinkled,

“For who knows what might be;

(In the years to come you may be the only one)

To own one of this 350.”

“Such a strange word: ‘Launch’”

The author said,

“Shades of a stern judge launching,

Whole books into the Universe

By the simple act of throwing.

So, should you read, and getting judge-y,

Attempt to throw this book at me,

I live in Australia, remember,

So I’ll be as far as far can be.”

Let me tell you about my mother,” Kevin said,

“A great ear for the Word she had.

Life has a way of changing, sometimes squishing, dreams

Yet can make you miss even what

You never really had.

And let me tell you about my grandmother,

And her ‘Book Box’, a glittering trove of gold;

Filled with courtrooms, wily lawyers, and dashing cowboys,

A magical world

For a book-hungry, twelve-year-old.”

“This book today is as much,” he said

“For Mom as it is for me.”

The years marched, but love affairs with books,

Once begun,

Stay constant, as you will all agree.

Then, one day, while wandering through

Pavement bookshops at Delhi’s Connaught Place,

That mysterious force, Kevin’s own McFate,

Directed him to Vikram Seth’s Golden Gate.

And Kevin felt those ‘perfumed pages’

Fill his mind with grace.

Writer Sreekumar Verma described Kevin’s book

A rollercoaster ride, not for the faint of heart,

The words gather you up, they fling you down,

This, he said, is an example of fine art.

For when the essence of poets and writers mingle,

He said…

It’s crazy pyrotechnics

In the reader’s head.

Shades of Nabakov, Sreekumar saw

In Martin’s work, and you accept his expert opinion,

Yet your mind, riding those verbal waves,

Sensed a whiff of the old H Hatterr tradition.

“Why verse?” came the inevitable question

While ‘in-conversation’,

“Muses come in all forms,” Kevin said,

“Verse stared me in the face;

Prose just wasn’t in my vision.”

Some may have been puzzled by this choice

Of this particular horn of cornucopia

“But Rhyme and Rhythm,” Kevin explained,

“Best describe my world of Anglo-India.”

Like all new authors, he was soon

Threatening to outdo Forsythe in rejection slips.

Writing, harsh Mistress, soon teaches us all

Of the chasms that yawn between cups and lips.

Then, Angels of Opportunity appeared

Albeit in different sizes;

That useful creature

(As every Wooster knows!)

An Aunt…

Told him of publishers ‘Anglo-Ink’ –

Thus averting crises;

And, by placing him on the path

One both true and sure,

She helped bring into his life,

The redoubtable Harry Mclure.

The book begins with an act of violence,

Metaphor for a nation’s birth

Through turbulent history.

It is also, Kevin said, a paean

To the Anglo-Indian’s constant search

For that sense of Identity.

“They call us hybrids,” Kevin said, with a smile neither sad nor angry,

For a minute you were back in Bangalore – in school,

With Marilyn, Susan, Caroline, Sandra,

And that redoubtable teacher – Miss Berry.

‘They assume our loyalty is confused’, the book says,

‘They think our women are fair game….’

Your mind recalls a film you once saw,

Chattakkari was its name.

So many stereotypes, struggling to breathe

Through a rich, colourful, cultural tapestry,

Filled with fun, music, dance, struggle, glory –

One mustn’t leave out the unique

In matters culinary.

“I planned the book in my head,” said Kevin

“The ideas grew like a banyan tree.”

And you figure letting imagination roam

(While swimming in Shelley’s ‘harmonious madness’)

Is perhaps the key…

It took golden-haired girls down rabbit-holes, remember?

It took people down those less travelled roads,

When you mingle ideas, emotions, and punishing hard work ….

You coax poetry to tell a story.

‘Double Cream’….

The title is a red herring, you are told….

You agree this particular dish is pretty potent

Deceptively soft, apparently sweet,

Yet with biting, unanswered questions

As its chief component.

“It’s best to keep your words soft and sweet,

For you never know when you’ll have to eat them;

I only wrote 85 a day…..” the author disclosed,

Adding: “But then even a single mosquito can be

So effective in causing mayhem.”

“So who am I?” the book persists,

“Whose Independence do I raise a toast to?

They say we’re a bit of this and that,

Then what ‘label’ should I choose to hold on to?”

Those who are the sum of many parts,

Needn’t see in them a restrictive wall….

Kevin smiled, like all who’ve vaulted boundaries,

“For ultimately, I am I…..” he stated,

The best identity of all. 

MBC members listened that day

To a poem that tells a story whole….

And, in the end, saw that this book reflects

A People’s collective soul.

Disclaimer: No real poets were hurt during, or because of, the writing of this piece.

Note: All Anglo-Ink books can be purchased only through its website: www.angloink.com