On November 27, a car with four male college students mowed down and killed five women, all past the age of 50, sitting on the grass bordering OMR on the outskirts of Chennai while cattle they were herding grazed nearby. The victims were identified as M. Andhaayi, 71, C. Logammmal, 56, G. Yasodha, 54, S. Vijaya, 53, K. Gowri, 52, of Paiyanur village. This is a poem to mourn these women, senselessly killed as they were going about their work day by a product of human ingenuity and industry that is also a deadly weapon.
We Mourn the Ones We Can
Never learn how to drive from your significant other, they say,
but I did, in the noughties,
in an ancient sedan named Matilda we bought for $200,
whose make I do not recall.
Honey, just remember this thing can kill, Joe said,
as surefire a way as gun, machete, bare hands, or bomb.
It’s been years since that day,
years since I graduated from Matilda
to a black Beetle I did not name
but loved and drove every day,
years since I left Joe and America for home.
But when a speeding car whose make I do not know
swerves off the highway
killing in one shot
five women sitting on the grass bordering the road —
K Andhaayi, 71
C Logammal, 56
G Yasodha, 54
S Vijaya, 53
K Gowri, 52
— while their cows graze in a nearby field,
I remember.
A crowd gathers, the papers say,
and thrashes the young driver and passenger in front
while the two in the back take off running
before the police arrive.
Class rage, they say.
Haves and have nots piled one on top of the other, they say.
All the injustices coming together
in that moment, they say.
The Chief Minister has awarded ₹200000 each
to the families of the deceased, the papers say.
That’s around $2300 – peanuts, some say.
Five dead.
Four lives forever changed.
For every one identified,
there are many others
whose names and precise number we do not know.
A village in Tamil Nadu reeling in anger and grief
as a cyclone intensifies
and prepares to land.
We watch wars and elections on our phones,
certain of the world’s collapse.
Every day, species vanish.
Fish corpses float belly up in toxic waters.
Birds fall silent.
Every day, the poet exiled
from the promised land
weeps as he mourns
one more dead infant,
one more dead relative,
one more dead friend.
For every one identified,
there are many others
whose names and precise number we do not know.
We mourn the ones we can.
I saw some cows wandering on the highway that evening, another says.
Were they looking for their human companions, now dead?
Did they find their way home?
Honey, just remember this thing can kill, Joe said,
as surefire a way as gun, machete, bare hands, or bomb.
When a speeding car whose make I do not know
swerves off the highway
killing in one shot
five women sitting on the grass bordering the road —
K Andhaayi, 71
C Logammal, 56
G Yasodha, 54
S Vijaya, 53
K Gowri, 52
— while their cows graze in a nearby field,
I remember.
We mourn the ones we can.
Akhila Ramnarayan is a writer, literary scholar, theatre actor, singer-songwriter, and college educator based in Chennai. She is one half of indie rock duo Starcracker, whose debut full-length album Day Is Night, released in March 2024, is available on all streaming platforms.
