Author Archives: Fathima Manal

About Fathima Manal

Dreams,fantasies,words and rhythm-other than skin,bones and muscles I am made up of these.With every drop of blood that my heart pumps,a new dream forms in me.With every breathe,i take the surroundings too inside me.And my poems are just the minute regurgitants of what i accumulate within. I am a doctor from Kerala,India,who should not be supposed to but is in deeply love with words and books more than medical books.Hope you enjoy my poems......


I boil the milk again,
Stir the coffee brutally
To bring up the froth above the rim.
I watch the creaminess
While it colour my lips.
Evening, with the bitterness of coffee
Still in my breath
I rub the stuck-on
Bubble remnants out of the cup,
Brutally with the scrubber.
At the window,
I wait the rain of weeks to withdraw,
And to get over
The heaps of unopened books.
I wait at the window,
Feeling like the bubbles of the froth
Desired in the morning
Trying to stick on through the day
To get wiped out at the dusk.

My grandmother’s last days

My grandmother, in her last days,
Set out to the edge of the paddy field
With a broken wooden chair from the attic,
Along with her half eaten memories.
There at the edge of the paddy field,
She watched her childhood and teenage
Running around, without impedance and loads.
Then one day, when the monsoon broke out
She ran to the field, half naked
Leaving behind her head scarf
Hopping and bouncing, in and out
She could not be brought back
She could not be explained
For she never knew, she had a wide gap
In her half eaten memories
Where the world around her had changed
From the much benevolent one
To a much malignant one.


Now silence has another face
A dancing lunatic beneath the moon
Freezing the night under her spell.
Her feet trembling the veins,
Her hair sweeping the earth,
Her breasts searching for a child.
This is not the silence
I once took into the soul-
Silence of the monsoon sky
A while before the heavy pour,
Silence of the setting sun
When the rumbling sea beckons it,
Silence of the peepal tree
When we crossed fingers underneath,
Silence of your moist lips
When it kissed mine.
This is another age, another face
Past is a heap of decayed dreams
Future, a handful of burnt hopes
And my silence, too, took another form..

Last time

When was the last time
I took a pen and paper
To pour my emotions
As tears, smiles and laughters ?
When was the last time
I called you to talk unendingly
On the views eyes captured
And the voices ears picked ?
May be in the last monsoon
May be in a monsoon years before
May be on a day from our ancient dream.
As of now, I’ve mastered the art
Of collecting everything inside
One by one as storeys –
Views over voices
Tears over smiles –
I don’t need a pen or paper
Or your time you keep always with you
To live over my days.


Bare uterus being crushed by womanhood,
Asked one day with haughtiness,

‘Womanhood without me?
Do you call yourself a woman
In my absence?’

‘ Woman is not your weight,
Nor your monthly weeps
Woman is the endurance ,
The sacrifice and the struggles’.

‘ And me?What’s me in womanhood?’

‘ You? You , my dear uterus ,
Are that insignificant part,
Who got too much attention
In an era of ignorance.’

Your mistakes

I pick your mistakes
Everytime you drop one-
The agonising words,
The shrewd negligence,
The silence of deception –
I bathe them in the slashing summer sun
Stick on them all those glass pieces
And nameless thorns you carry
To place them in a chamber inside.
Every other time I see you
It bleeds unknowingly
Reminding me the pain
I endure for loving you.


It’s time to withdraw
Slowly, dwindling from your hair,
Eyes, lips, through neck,
Down, down and down
As pulling a quilt
From the foot-end.

It’s time to withdraw
My over- spread shadow
From your torso,
Through the mattress, the wall,
The window- panes
Back onto the devil- tree
Sprawling on your yard
From where I can see
My zeal and zest
Playing still on you.

It’s time to withdraw
The mist back into the woods
As summer is nearing apace.
And with me
Your over-spilling courage,
The spirit and vigour
I instilled on you.

My Grandpa

One night, before the gasping began-
I was told later-
He asked for me.
I was not a pet,
Not a granddaughter he’d pray for,
Not an obedient homemaker,
Not a mother of a bunch of boys.
Hence I ignored the calls
Blaming the lies they may contain
I threw them in air
Like unwanted time- killers .
Now, days gone , a little away
From the umbrella -shaped stone
Among the knee-length green grass ,
I assume his body fighting with worms and termites.
I feel the calls might be true,
I might’ve been asked,
I might’ve been in his prayers,
A pinch of blessing
Might’ve been saved for me.
I drop a tear on the grass
For the last act of my disobedience .

The Path

I see a fallen nest, on my way
I walk away, afraid to put it back
Lest I see two or three
Corpses within.

This is the path I pass
Every morning and dusk.

I keep your fragrance
Inside my jacket.
And, today too, I fail to smell
Scent of the moist earth.

Here people pass me
Just as they cross.
My eyes, always towards sides,
Fail to see many.

The pond is silent today
Except for a regurgitating bubble
In a corner of its square face
To show a thousand lives within.

They see the changing colour of my clothes,
My earrings and anklets
Even the changing stories behind me
My mind, oblivious to them ,
Wanders on the path and above.

The path has changed
I see the tall trees, sentries themselves ,
Silently calling back
Their tiny curled roots from the path.