Poem: Dented and Painted

I am a woman

Pricked by thorny remarks
on my girlhood, staining
my innocence with spite

Stung by the bite of leather
on my skin, trying to whip me
into submission

Choked by dreams imprisoned
in the kitchen’s stifling heat,
gasping for freedom

Disfigured by acidic attacks
seeking to silence my voice
which rises above his

And you call me dented,
like a car’s fender, when
I’m scarred all the way through?


I am a woman

Daubing myself
in the black and white
do’s and don’ts, prescribed at birth

Smearing my face
with the blues
of monotonous obedience

Drowning
in the earthy brown
of a mother’s warmth

Changing my makeup
and switching roles
faster than the best of all divas

And you call me painted –
a hasty cover-up job – when
I am a mask, down to my very core?

---

If the Delhi rape incident revealed anything, it's that many of the people our so-called representatives, are themselves sexist pigs who can't (won't?) do anything to end the vicious cycle of male chauvinism and supremacy. My reply to one among the spate of callous remarks, courtesy Abhijeet Mukherjee (Prez Pranab's son), who commented that the women who protested at Delhi were 'dented and painted.'

Poem: Spice

At home:

He sees
Slender slices of onion
perfectly tanned

He tastes
Tamarinds dancing
the tango on his tongue

All seasoned with her loving glances
served by her pampering hands


In some dark alley:

He sees
Red-hot chilli powder
igniting his eyes

He tastes
Pepper sprays
evoking helpless tears

Flavoured with her contempt
Served by hands ready to smother him
If he even thinks of pouncing on her
Again.

We women are not born to be imprisoned within the walls of the kitchen. We have the freedom to go wherever we want to, and men cannot rape us into submission. If you hurt us, we WILL strike back.

Short Story: Chromosomes XX

Not-so-dear husband of mine,

The clock claims that it’s only an hour and a half since the alcoholic storm began. It must be lying, since it feels like aeons to me. An eternity of punches and slaps and kicks, of cuts and scratches and bruises.

And I did not scream, not even once.

I know that frustrates you. Maybe that’s why I remain silent throughout the daily tortures – I like to think it as my only way of rebelling, though it only serves to infuriate you further. The pleasure of not giving you the satisfaction of knowing for sure that you’d hurt me, that’s what sustains me through the night. But today, you went too far: You slapped Asha for crying loudly.

“Shekhar’s boy is nice and well-behaved! Why can’t this accursed brat just shut up!” you growled. As if my brother-in-law’s spoiled betaa hadn’t bawled when he was four months old. I would have said all that, and much more, but I was too fond of my life and that of my daughter’s to test your patience. But it was as if your slap had jolted me, not Asha, out of my stupor. It brought me to my senses and now I know what I have to do.

Even the full moon is finding my actions blasphemous; it has stormed away behind a cloud, trying to deter me with darkness. But nothing, nothing, will stop me from taking this chance.

Because I can easily see my daughter  growing up into a beautiful woman, only to get caught in that vicious cycle that I, my mother, my grandmother and great-grandmothers all lived… only to replay the sorrows we had to live through. 

I can see her, eight years old, draped in an old red cloth, eyes lined with kohl and hands daubed in mehendi, adjusting the countless bead necklaces around her and flashing a pretty smile at the imaginary onlookers at her “wedding”. Her naïveté makes me want to cry. 

I can see her grow and discover all what she had missed in the hullabaloo of hide-and-seek and hopscotch: her father’s icy indifference towards her, the pitying looks her parents received when people learned they had a girl, the disapproving creases in the elders’ foreheads  as she studied diligently while skipping a chore or two…

I can see her glowing with pride as her teacher praised her work and said, sadly, that she was destined for greatness. I can see her, at fifteen, eyes flashing in anger as she was placed under house arrest while the boys went off to the city for higher studies.

I can see her watching her father bargaining with the ladkewale over the dowry. I can see that bitter smile on her face as she thinks how uncannily he resembles her mother haggling with the greengrocer over the prices of the vegetables.

I can see her getting married for real, her destiny knotted with that of a burly man she’d never even seen before.

I can see the terror and grief on her face as she sees her father’s lifeless body hanging from the rafters of her childhood home. On the floor, her mother lies, spread-eagled, an empty bottle of rat poison clutched in her cold hands. A crumpled piece of paper proclaims about a loan that could not be repaid.

I can see her kneeling in front of the temple, praying fervently for her unborn child not to be a girl. Please let it be a boy, she will plead as the camphor seeped through the morning air, I’ll do anything, anything, to prevent a child sharing my fate. If she was lucky, she would be lead a better life, compared to enduring the taunts and the scathing comments about giving birth to a girl. I can see her wondering how her mother-in-law could forget that she herself possessed XX chromosomes. (You’ve forgotten the lesson on Genetics, back in tenth standard, haven't you? I thought so.)

I can easily see history repeating itself. And as Asha’s tiny fist close around my little finger as a grapevine coils around a support, yearning for strength, I realize it’s time I became her greatest support. It’s time someone rewrote the storyline that has been parroted for generations. It’s time I earned my freedom. It's time I just left.

And, for once, I want to scream out loud. I want to scream in wild joy, scream without inhibitions.

Refusing to be yours,

A woman, and proud of it.

Reality Check

Despicable. That's the only word I can come up with to sum up the horrendous Trichur train incident. For those who are in the dark about this tragedy (I doubt there are such people; this issue has been well-publicised): An innocent woman was brutally hurt and raped, resulting in her untimely death.

This violent incident is a shame not only to Keralites, but to the whole mankind which degrades the status of women and denies them the respect they deserve. In spite of so much progress in various spheres, women are still not safe in India. They are in constant danger of eve-teasers, harassers, molesters... it's no wonder that parents, including mine, are scared to let girls out late in the evening. But such incidents are no longer confined to the dark; they even take place in broad daylight!

It's high time that this male-dominated society realised that women are an integral part of the society and that they should be accorded honour. Women are NOT the dirt under men's feet. Women have their pride, their dignity, and whoever messes with it should be punished strictly. Otherwise there's a big question mark over the safety of women...