I don’t know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with

Nehru. I am Indian, very brown, born in
Malabar, I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one. Don’t write in English, they said,
English is not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone. It is half English, half
Indian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don’t
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair. When
I asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me. I shrank
Pitifully. Then… I wore a shirt and my
Brother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl,
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.

Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games.
Don’t play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love… I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him… the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me… the oceans’ tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself
I; in this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys which are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.

Kamala Das’s poem “An Introduction” is a potent and reflective work that delves into themes of language, identity, societal expectations, and the poet’s pursuit of self-expression. The poem offers a moving meditation on the difficulties of negotiating social norms and the intricacies of being a woman in a patriarchal culture.

The poem’s opening line, which highlights how superficially society understands politics, makes fun of the poet’s lack of interest in politics despite her ability to memorise the names of political figures. Then, Kamala Das explores her own identity, highlighting her multilingualism, Indian ancestry, and distinctive voice. She challenges the idea that one’s identity is defined by their language and addresses the criticism she received for writing in English.

Das describes the pressures she faces from society to fit into predetermined roles and her own struggles, especially as a young wife. She uses her marital humiliation as a metaphor for the oppressive nature of gender norms as she talks about it. The poet embraces her uniqueness and rebels against social norms by declining to conform to predetermined roles.

The poem ends with a powerful declaration of who I am. Das asserts her right to be both a saint and a sinner, to love and be betrayed. The constant quest for self-realization is reflected in the hazy boundaries separating the self from the outside world. With its strong declaration of the poet’s autonomy, “An Introduction” defies social conventions and embraces the poet on her own terms.