"The maggots" is one of my favorite poems of Kamala Das (scroll down to read it). I haven't read a lot of her, not even My Story, but I have always felt a deep admiration for her. It's almost like I can feel her pain, her longing for love. I don't believe most of her stories of lust. I think what she craved was love, not lust. Her rebellion and poems were probably her only source of conveying her love. Could they be her secret love letters to someone? I wonder what she would have been if not a writer, probably might have fallen into depression and died premature. Well, this is just my judgement, although who are any of us to judge?
Sometimes, I wish I was like her. I wish I had her valor, her finesse in writing and her capacity to emote and feel love. But then I remember how she died -- betrayed and unhappy! I wonder if she was ever happy. I think of all the poems that she wrote for herself that we never got to read.
Kamala Das, I want to dig deep in your heart and live in there for a few days, hiding beneath your poise and feeling nothing but fervent love. Burry your fragile self somewhere, and up hold the title of the brave lady people have adorned you with; otherwise, your soul won't endure the two of us.
"What is it to the corpse if the maggots nip?"
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