Saris and a Single Malt

by Sweta Srivastava Vikram

Overview

Saris and a Single Malt is a moving collection of poems written by a daughter for and about her mother. The book spans the time from when the poet receives a phone call in New York City that her mother is in a hospital in New Delhi, to the time she carries out her mother's last rites. The poems chronicle the author's physical and emotional journey as she flies to India, tries to fight the inevitable, and succumbs to the grief of living in a motherless world. This collection will move you, astound you, and make you hug your loved ones.

"There are few books like Saris and a Single Malt in which the loss of a mother, a homeland, and the self come together in a sustained elegy." --Justen Ahren, Director Noepe Center, Author of A Strange Catechism

"In life, as in poetry, one must come from the heart. Sweta Vikram has done both with touching eloquence. Her work resonates deeply within one's deepest emotional sacristy." --Sharon Kapp, Owner & Founder, Houston Yoga & Ayurvedic Wellness Center

"Saris and a Single Malt is a fitting and delightful tribute of a writer-daughter to her affectionate mother which goes deep into the minds of all children who love their moms."--K. V. Dominic, English language poet, critic, short-story writer, and editor from Kerala, India

Sweta Srivastava Vikram, featured by Asian Fusion as "one of the most influential Asians of our time," is an award-winning writer, Pushcart Prize nominee, author of ten books, and wellness practitioner. A graduate of Columbia University, Sweta performs her work, teaches creative writing workshops, and gives talks at universities and schools across the globe.

Learn more at www.swetavikram.com

From the World Voices Series at Modern History Press www.ModernHistoryPress.com

POE005060 POETRY / American / Asian American

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781615992942
Publisher:	Modern History Press
Publication date:	08/01/2016
Pages:	46
Product dimensions:	6.14(w) x 9.21(h) x 0.10(d)

About the Author

Sweta Srivastava Vikram, featured by Asian Fusion as "one of the most influential Asians of our time," is an award-winning writer, Pushcart Prize nominee, author of ten books, and wellness practitioner. A graduate of Columbia University, Sweta performs her work, teaches creative writing workshops, and gives talks at universities and schools across the globe.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

FLIGHT

Friday, May 30, 2014, my husband and I caught a flight to New Delhi. Mumma, unexpectedly fell ill, and was rushed to the ICU, at Medanta Hospital in Gurgaon. She and my dad were supposed to be on their way to Kashmir—paradise on earth, she said.

Poetry kept me afloat in the air, and after our plane landed. From the time we got the call in New York to the time Mom received last rites 36 hours had passed. In 36 hours the poems in this chapbook took flight.

Friday, May 30, 2014

Poetry, pain, and prayers

I think it is a bad joke—Mumma isn't sick I had spoken with her two days ago and promised to cook, Kalam Polow
Mom is put on a ventilator? my thoughts start to breathe.
I pack my bags,
My husband, Anudit, smiles and says
Friday, May 30,
But instead of reading in the East Village,
Poetry never once leaves my hand;
Destination

Do I see myself clearly—
I keep my mouth filled with water,
I don't see myself clearly,
JFK: Terminal 4 Airport Lounge

I call up New Delhi;
I pick up my ticket and passport,
At first I try to hide the fact,
I play tag with your memories
Ticket and passport in hand I am ready to leave, praying.
Wait for Me

I walk inside your heart my empty palms suture the leaks in your valves so you don't drown.

I read you passages from our unwritten lives,
so I don't grieve for you already.

The flight is set for takeoff don't ask me to keep the faith

because the sky looks empty.

Looking for Signs

I look at the clouds outside my airplane window;
What is loss, I ask,
I forget that I am a daughter, made of flesh and bones,
Fifty Minutes from New Delhi

In 2010, I wrote a poem about strawberries and how its seeds, like loss, are present everywhere.

On my plane ride to New Delhi,
I notice the strawberry jam on my breakfast tray the stewardess brings.
Picking up the croissant,
Serendipity

My poems are obsessed with stories of loss and displacement

I tell my husband as our plane flies over Africa.

Fifteen years, Mummy-Papa lived here, in Libya.
Before he responds the plane turns dark.
Indira Gandhi International Airport: New Delhi

I wait for the yellow roses hiding your face. I stretch out my neck like a giraffe, hoping to get a glimpse of your walking stick. The familiar hug wrapped in your neatly arranged sari. The patches of talcum powder in the curves of your neck. For you to say Khush raho, and discuss the lunch and dinner menu. For me to say, Chilli chicken & noodles, Mumma, can I eat three lunches today?

I wait. I weep. I sit in the chair in the arrival lounge, holding leftovers of flight food and your memories. People move like dervishes, shadows come and go, reality pours in like black tar.

I am waiting for you at the wrong gate.

CHAPTER 2

FIRE

At the end of the sixteen-hour flight, when we landed in India, Mumma was gone. As Hindu tradition required cremation, I witnessed fire and ashes. I also witnessed the fiery hypocrisy of a few mourners. I fronted a brave face during the day despite the fire in my heart but at night I would break down and pour my heart out in poems.

May 31, 2014

Poetry, pain, and prayers

Bhaiya: "I am sorry. Mom is gone."

Mom was only in her sixties.
How can you do this to us?
New Delhi became a stranger to me;
Motherless: I embraced poetry and Bhaiya.
Poetry never once leaves my hand;
Ironically, Mom always complained that I never wrote poems about her.

Why Didn't You Wait for Me?

Such un-clarity on such a bright day,
I ask for a sign;
Can you hear me?

Did you know I needed to give you a hug,
A detour in your journey,
Why didn't you wait for me?
I ask for a sign;
I wonder, as I stare at your body wrapped in blue in the morgue. You look peaceful.
Chota kapdaa pehnee phir se?

I ask for a sign;
thanking the thunder for expressing my pain through the noise.

Why didn't you wait for me, Ma?

Crashing

I can't be a Zen wave in the ocean—
It's Not Easy

Nothing remains after Bhaiya and I burn your body as per Hindu traditions.

The mourners around us dissolve into tears;
Ghee is what we put into your mouth and see the teeth marks of death.
It's in our silence that you hear goodbye.
Noise

I didn't know silence, Ma,
Conversations with Mumma

I have never learned to sit quietly through confusion. Getting unsolicited, cruel advice from a few people, and putting your body into the fire reminded me why you would say: You can handle anything, Beta. You are my strong daughter.

(1)

I was raised to say only words that were nice.
Why did you accept spiteful words from those you held close to your heart?

I want to bleed my pain into this poem,
(2)

I know which women showed up to your funeral to collect gossip. I can smell drama queens just as effortlessly as I can bathe in the aroma of your mustard fish curry.

People asked if I took pictures right before we cremated you.
I will always be your gatekeeper.

(3)

A hug has never felt so wrong,
I didn't cry or open the chambers to my heart.
My mother might be gone, but my Papa is not alone.
(4)

While your body burned at the crematorium,
You fed these scavengers even when you were alive.
I brought my palm to their faces, hard, in my fantasy.
But I didn't say a thing. I was raised to say only words that were nice.

(5)

You made mistakes, Mumma;
Was it your heart that betrayed you;
SARIS and a SINGLE MALT

For Mummy—wherever you are, I bet the place has good whisky and a beautiful collection of saris.

Ode to Mumma

No matter which of your many saris you were wearing it would set your face aglow—
French chiffons, closest to your heart and the safe in your wardrobe,
I remember hiding underneath your pallu when thunderstorms scared me, Ma.
Memories and scents, I hold them close.
GRIEF

Everyone has an answer—how to cope and grieve when you have regrets and guilt. But no one tells you how to deal with loss when there is nothing you want to change about your past or your relationship with the deceased.

June 1, 2014

Poetry, pain, and prayers

On Sunday morning, June 1 Mom was cremated.
Everybody is clad in white.
All the traditions and rituals seemed meaningless to me.

Will following these rules bring Mummy back?
Mumma went away suddenly?
Does Grief Wear a Color?

Hindu tradition tells me to wear white to show loss.

But, will wearing white bring back my mother?

No one answers.

A part of me died with you, Mumma.
I can't wear white,
I Write

I write your name on my lips over and over again
This grief isn't supposed to be mine.
I scrub the house clean,
but nothing washes away images of you tied to tubes in the hospital.

I press my palms to my lips:
But loss has a mind of its own.

To survive, I must write.

Forever Courage, Beta I wear the butterfly pendant you gave me, Mumma. I pull at it, hoping the wings will set me free. I want to get away from everybody. I want to know how to reach you. I don't want to live in the absence of your voice. I wonder what you would say if I read my plea. Suddenly, I hear you whisper in the summer breeze. Never lose courage, Beta. You've always been strong. I swallow my angst. Words, I tell you, they stay with me forever.

Namaste

We sit in a car with red lights.
Time Changes Us

I hear you hum, "Time changes us all."
Writing is what helps me keep you alive.
I stand inside the sound of my words,
(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Saris and a Single Malt"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Sweta Srivastava Vikram.
Excerpted by permission of Loving Healing Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Foreword,
Acknowledgments,
FLIGHT,
Friday, May 30, 2014,
Destination,
JFK: Terminal 4 Airport Lounge,
Wait for Me,
Looking for Signs,
Fifty Minutes from New Delhi,
Serendipity,
Indira Gandhi International Airport: New Delhi,
FIRE,
May 31, 2014,
Why Didn't You Wait for Me?,
Crashing,
It's Not Easy,
Noise,
Conversations with Mumma,
SARIS and a SINGLE MALT,
Ode to Mumma,
GRIEF,
June 1, 2014,
Does Grief Wear a Color?,
I Write,
Forever Courage, Beta,
Namaste,
Time Changes Us,
The Final Note,
Afterword,
About the Author,