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The title of R. Nirmala’s debut collection of poetry (which will unfortunately be her last one too since she passed away within months of its publication) gives a fairly good idea about what you can expect from it. Many poems here are about the double-edged existence of a middle-class woman: warm and cosy in front of the kitchen hearth, and yet, confined and stifled by the monotony of her role as a home-maker. The warm fire does hold the potential to flare up and become a blazing inferno.

The poems in Uriva… are replete with images of the enclosed world of a woman’s home. Interestingly, the protagonist of many poems here is not a fiery feminist vociferously protesting against her condition. Rather, she is a somewhat reticent woman who is not entirely dismissive of her comfort zone, even as she is constantly questioning and quarrelling with it.

Protest in these poems is an undercurrent rather than an outburst. The woman in the poem “Aalada Neralu”, for example, acknowledges that the man in her life has indeed given her happiness and security. Yet, she hankers after the vastness that lies beyond. “I am restless in the/ shade of the banyan tree./ I want the sun high up in the sky.” Though the middle-path she strikes can sometimes seem too conciliatory for comfort, the ambiguity of tone works well in the better poems in the collection.

There are also some tender poems in Uriva…about the elusive nature of Time and the dream-like quality of all recollections from the past. “I look again and again/ for that black sparkle/ among silvery strands of hair,” says the protagonist of “Hudukuttiddene Huduga”, cleverly reversing the commonplace association with “silver lining”.

It is not very often that Nirmala ventures out of the realm of personal relationship in her poems. But when she does, the results are striking. “Vijnana”, draws an image from mythology to make a remark with stinging sarcasm on misuse of modern-day science.

“Dusshale is the only sister/ for a hundred Kauravas./ No reason for/ worry any more./ No need for bride burning./ What foresight!” It is a pity that we will not read more from Nirmala.

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