Since the banshee spends half her life wailing and crying, she did not find the time or the energy to put this up earlier, but this is a letter from the Sapphic Epistles that the banshee is trying to write. So the banshee can fall in love with witches, wizards, mortals, ghosts, other banshees, anyone at all. And the banshee gets fascinated by whoever she can connect herself with, so the epistles are mostly to freakish people, and the banshee writes a lot about sexualities, disabilities, traumas and mental illnesses. The banshee also presented papers around similar themes on Robin Williams and Frida Kahlo, and the next one coming up is the banshee's favouritest poet, Emily Dickinson.
So, this letter to Kamala Das, one of the shortest letters that the banshee has written, in fact, appeared in the Usawa Newsletter (the banshee not being high-brow enough for the main journal yet) in March 2024 here.
My dearest Kamala, Amy, Madhavikutty, what should I call you?
I don't want to call you Das... although I fell in love with someone called Das, but no Kamala, why should I call you by the name of that man who never loved you? To whom you were just possession and property...Your
parents never loved each other Amy-kutty, neither did your husband. My parents
didn't love each other either--- well, they did once-- but they fell out of
love. And they divorced. And I? I never married, Amy. Not till now, in any
case. Growing without love etched scars on our souls.
Your father made you only wear plain white
frocks!! That reminds me of Anne... Anne Shirley... Marilla only dressed her in
stiff browns and greys, though she yearned for "puffed sleeves"! I
have always been in love with Anne, since age ten...
How desperately lonely you must’ve been... that
man didn't even let you attend to your own kids! Your woman breasts felt so
crushed and your sad woman heart must have felt so beaten... First father, then
husband! Our lives as women hemmed in by these patriarchal figures of
authority!
When we don't have love, we fall into illicit
love. You fell in love with your art teacher, and your English teacher. How
lovely. I fell in love with my teachers too-- my history and hindi teacher, and
my English teacher. A school teacher and a college teacher. Both women. I
wonder why female English teachers attract us, Amy... how did she look... how
did she make you feel... and of course you were never allowed to pursue your
loves, but were made to live a loveless life! Such catastrophe... I could never
fulfil my loves either, Amy... they were my teachers, and they were married
after all... I wonder if I will ever find love, Amy... it seems enormously
difficult... I’ve asked several others too, both boys and girls but it never
works out… but then I seek love in foremothers like you, who have gone before,
who have written painted and sung all that was in their hearts...
What about that girl in the train whom you
kissed, Amy? On her mouth? Wow. I never did kiss a girl... and that mysterious
girl whom you lost after just one kiss---the eyes, the lips, the curves, and
the soul... how tragic! Did she have long black hair? I love dense black
curls... you dated many different men kutty, but your patriarchal husband must
have been so jealous… I love those kind of poly- relationships, Amy, where
there’s no jealousy… I’m not at all jealous of my teacher’s husband because
he’s too good and kind and I don’t know how to be jealous of someone so good
whom I respect… someone said I’m not jealous of him because she was already
married to him when I got to know her, but that’s not true, Amy, I looked
within myself and I know that’s not the reason. I could and indeed would’ve
been jealous of a lesser man… but I read about Amrita Pritam, Amy, her
delightful relationships with Sajjad Haider and Sahir and Imroz… and concept of
the raqib in urdu poetry…
You wrote so honestly Amy... I do too... I don't
know what will befall me for this courage of truth... you led a difficult life
in your time, Amy... and me in mine... I speak and write publicly about
everything—my queerness, autism, depression, childhood trauma—all the
consequences and disciplinary action that befell me for being so intensely in
love with my teacher... I try to hide it in the garb of fiction, but I’m afraid
I’m too honest, perhaps my fiction fails to hide anything at all... because it’s
truth... but it’s only my truth. It could be fiction, from the other's
perspective. That's what Tracy Chapman says in her song, 'Telling Stories'.
You fell in depression. You had to, kutty, after
the life you led. But why did you fall into depression after the birth of your
children? I fell into depression after they forced me away from my teacher, took
disciplinary action, and all... but it was one-sided love, it was illicit,
Amy... it couldn’t last... but I write too honestly... one day retribution will
befall me for this too, this act of expressing... they say I write like you, I
think so too…
I’m so glad you did find love at last... in
Carlo... d’you think I might too, Amy? I can't seem to love men's bodies
somehow... especially not their penises... you changed your name... they say
you found love in Allah... or perhaps in a Muslim man... whatever it be, I’m so
glad you found love at last... you said you believed in Krishna too... my
grandmother once compared me loving my teacher single-mindedly in absentia to
Mirabai loving Krishna... but devotion is so beautiful, isn't it now,
Amy-kutty?
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