Budding

by Siri Palreddy

Siri Palreddy

I am an incoming first year at Amherst College, planning to study Biology and English. My favorite genres to explore are poetry and creative nonfiction. In my poetry, I often find myself writing short, clipped stanzas that convey an urgent tone. I explore a variety of topics, usually having to do with my identity as a first-generation American. In my creative nonfiction works, I also find I work best when I write with my own life in mind, and have written about my experience as a woman and a person of color, along with other things.

I enjoy writing, because it helps me explain the inexplicable to myself. Emotions, arguments, abstract concepts — I understand them best when letting the words in my head flow onto the keyboard. When I am in an ideal writing, my mind has no limits, and I find myself reexamining the stories that constitute my life so far, extracting material to use in my works. As any writer does, I hope that those who read my work will resonate with the experiences I tell, but also be drawn in and fascinated by the details specific to me.

When I’m not writing, I enjoy playing my violin and making lists. At my high school alma mater, Choate Rosemary Hall, I was a former copy editor for the Choate News and a highlighted writer for the Lit, the school’s primary literary magazine. I was awarded the Choate Rosemary Hall English Burger Prize at the end of my senior year for the best creative writing published in a Choate Rosemary Hall publication. I was also a shortlisted writer for the Food Writing competition of Write the World and a top 10% finalist in the national Profile in Courage Essay contest.

I hope to integrate my love of science and writing as a career in the future, combining two disciplines that I feel haven’t been explored in conjunction enough.

I enjoy writing, because it helps me explain the inexplicable to myself. Emotions, arguments, abstract concepts — I understand them best when letting the words in my head flow onto the keyboard. When I am in an ideal writing, my mind has no limits, and I find myself reexamining the stories that constitute my life so far, extracting material to use in my works. As any writer does, I hope that those who read my work will resonate with the experiences I tell, but also be drawn in and fascinated by the details specific to me.

When I’m not writing, I enjoy playing my violin and making lists. At my high school alma mater, Choate Rosemary Hall, I was a former copy editor for the Choate News and a highlighted writer for the Lit, the school’s primary literary magazine. I was awarded the Choate Rosemary Hall English Burger Prize at the end of my senior year for the best creative writing published in a Choate Rosemary Hall publication. I was also a shortlisted writer for the Food Writing competition of Write the World and a top 10% finalist in the national Profile in Courage Essay contest.

I hope to integrate my love of science and writing as a career in the future, combining two disciplines that I feel haven’t been explored in conjunction enough.

Loading...

jungle fever

i stay still
there’s a snake’s tongue in my left nostril
and a vine tickling my esophagus
choking on nature
and all the while
the cicadas nestle inside my ear
their buzzing reverberating off my ear drums
only silencing when they die
only returning once the eggs hatch

i want to move
but my muscles are taut
the tendons are frozen
and my blood is melting
yet cooling down
at the same time
jungle fever has reduced
me to the maggoty corpse
of prey which no 
one wants to consume
what would want me inside themselves

i can’t tell you what’s happening inside me
because i am clueless to the fact
i am a host to the parasites
making themselves home
in my hair and bedding underneath my nails
and the only thing i can do
is pass this onto you

because suffering is a little easier
when you’re holding
your brother’s hand
already cold from death

Loading...

the antithesis of a lie

i don’t know myself
i’d rather you not tell me
i prefer bedding
with my lies festering
beneath their oils
hidden and concealed
down under with the
worms and spotted mushrooms
mold growing through my
secret crevices
lending damp warmth to
moist and fertile air

no need for your
citrus harshness and
hurtful truths with a
dollop of reality
at least your version of it
i don’t believe your
tales about me
i am fine

inconceivably
spectacular in fact
is what and who i am
allow me to lie here
i have no desire
to hatch out of my
sanctuary and
into the truth

Loading...

the antithesis of a lie

i don’t know myself
i’d rather you not tell me
i prefer bedding
with my lies festering
beneath their oils
hidden and concealed
down under with the
worms and spotted mushrooms
mold growing through my
secret crevices
lending damp warmth to
moist and fertile air

no need for your
citrus harshness and
hurtful truths with a
dollop of reality
at least your version of it
i don’t believe your
tales about me
i am fine

inconceivably
spectacular in fact
is what and who i am
allow me to lie here
i have no desire
to hatch out of my
sanctuary and
into the truth

I want the last words I write

I want the last thing I write to be a lie
I want you to wonder if the woman being burned in front of you
is a martyr or a traitor
if her motives were pure or tainted

I don’t want you to read me like a book
The windows that are my eyes have been shuttered
Don’t look into my soul
I want to be a mystery
In the final moments within my control

I want you to read my last words
and whisper them into my ashes

I want you to yearn for the truth
and taste my cinders
dip into my urn
a desperate experiment
to understand me for once

Search for my truth
Until you wither away
and lightning strikes 
and you are alone
a torch breathing empty smoke
into your children

only finding your answers
when you are burned
like
everything into nothing
like
blood in the sea
like
embers in the wind

Excerpt from Flower Boy

Something about the way the willow wood burned fascinated him, yet scared him. A smoky incense, one fueled by dung patties and now his beloved cricket bat, filled his nostrils and squeezed tears from his eyes, like how his mother would wring limes out on hot, simmering mornings to make nimbu pani.

“Amma,” he turned to his mother as the thick, hot saliva gathering in the crevice between his top gum and lips dampened his voice.

She looked guilty but retained her firm stance.

“Kumar — do you really think playing cricket will help you in the future? Do you think you’ll become some superstar cricket player, the next Sunil Gavaskar?” She phrased her words like a true question, rather than a concealed reprimand.

He bit his lower lip determinedly, the bite of pain temporarily outweighing the burning in his eyes.

“No, but, I’m good at cricket, Amma. You should see me! Father Joseph said I was the best player he’d seen in a long time. He invited me to join the school cricket team. It doesn’t even take too long, only two hours after school.” he added urgently.

“Practice, playing, traveling — it will all add up.” She reached out to hold him by the shoulders.

“You’ve already been neglecting your studies. You have exams tomorrow, and here you are, playing outside with cricket balls.”

“But, but, you’re letting Raj play! Why can’t I?” a desperate, almost whiny note leaked into his voice.

“Ay, he is your younger brother, Kumar. He has time, let him play. You are sixteen, already.” she said.

“I know,” he mumbled resignedly.

“Then you know you need to study to get a good job, find a nice, proper girl to add to the family, and go to America. How will you do that playing cricket? Tell me, how?”

He balled up his hands into fists, the stubby nails he cut so short to better his grip around his bat barely leaving an impression on his calloused palms. His muscles tensed with the effort of trying not to cry. No, he reprimanded himself silently, no, he was much too old to cry, he had a mouth and words to use, didn’t he?

Heaving slightly, he began, “Amma, I promise, I won’t do it again. I won’t ever play cricket without studying first. I swear, I’ll even quit the school team, Amma — just, please, take the bat out of the fire, please, Amma. Please.” the tears he’d tried so hard to contain were escaping from the corners of his eyes and collecting on his wispy mustache.

For a second, they both latched eyes with each other, her hands still steady on his shoulders. In that shared moment, he understood her — he understood why she was doing this and saw that she didn’t want to do it.

“But, but, you’re letting Raj play! Why can’t I?” a desperate, almost whiny note leaked into his voice.

“Ay, he is your younger brother, Kumar. He has time, let him play. You are sixteen, already.” she said.

“I know,” he mumbled resignedly.

“Then you know you need to study to get a good job, find a nice, proper girl to add to the family, and go to America. How will you do that playing cricket? Tell me, how?”

He balled up his hands into fists, the stubby nails he cut so short to better his grip around his bat barely leaving an impression on his calloused palms. His muscles tensed with the effort of trying not to cry. No, he reprimanded himself silently, no, he was much too old to cry, he had a mouth and words to use, didn’t he?

Heaving slightly, he began, “Amma, I promise, I won’t do it again. I won’t ever play cricket without studying first. I swear, I’ll even quit the school team, Amma — just, please, take the bat out of the fire, please, Amma. Please.” the tears he’d tried so hard to contain were escaping from the corners of his eyes and collecting on his wispy mustache.

For a second, they both latched eyes with each other, her hands still steady on his shoulders. In that shared moment, he understood her — he understood why she was doing this and saw that she didn’t want to do it.

She broke away and glanced at the cricket bat, still smouldering in the hearth.

“You didn’t answer the question, Kumar. I put the bat in there for a reason. Leave it, Kumar. And don’t waste your tears, it’s for the best.” 

She wiped the salt streaks from his cheeks with the frayed end of her cotton sari and began to walk back to the house.

 As she treaded up the path, she felt an overwhelming urge to look behind her. But she knew if she turned back, she might give in, might let her son keep being a boy instead of becoming a man. It was for the best, she reminded herself of the same words she’d told him only a minute ago.

If she had looked back, she would’ve seen the boy kneeling next to the whimpering fire, waiting for it to extinguish. She would’ve seen him gingerly slide the bat out from its place among the dung and mud. She would’ve seen him clasp his hands around the bat’s handle and sit peacefully by himself, before dusting off the charred edges of the wood and placing the bat back into the hearth.

If she looked back, she would’ve seen him pluck a single flower stemming from the center of his right palm and lay it gently upon the damaged willow wood — the next morning, she would’ve realized where the hushed pink peony petals came from.