To the Woman I met Once

The felt tip underneath my skin
Wrote “Woman” all over my body
before I turned eighteen
And hence, started the blooming
Out of the broken puberty lines
I found cursive lines of black ink
Everywhere I looked,
Whiteners fashioned out of prejudice
Would not make them lose
The heart broke in the midst of stormy shambles
While, I gathered my sunny stock in order
to raise a barn amidst the woods
I kept friendships at the backdoor
However, it shines and it shines
Words spoken could not erase
What was written so inexplicably inside
Women were always pink carnations
Heaped upon one another, frail, shivering
And yet, there was something of a reclamation
In the streets of a town which was sepia toned
So, confessing to myself over a cigarette
In a street where the time halted to a stop
i decided that my body is forgiven
For being so, and the felt tip became film
Showcased to an eclectic audience
On a wooden night where plastic fell
Out of images, I drew out transformations
And paintbrushes became who I was
Not a sermon, more a ballad
Spoken out from hilly mountaintops
Where mercy so immediately merged with snow
That the horses ran across fields
I was a daffodil, among carnations and forget-me-nots
And the felt tip still wrote, but, now
The songs were stories, and I will tell you one
The story of a boy who was born
The story of a girl who always was
And how there were not two souls but, one
How where you come from
Is not who you are…

On thorny mornings

This is a part of the series of posts about Rabindrasangeets that have influenced me, I am not even a speck of what the bard was, but, I try…

I remember you before dawns, walking out with a horse, in a sunset that I could only describe as thorny. You held in your fingers a pencil, and you decided to draw poetry on a sand. I wouldn’t find my portrait in those words until you decided to leave the city on your car.
Now, i remember days like I remember nights. They are the same. No one wets my candle with their touch the moment I have turned around. The saree is no longer a seductress and the red and white often becomes a landscape of lilies marred by the blood of a swallow. You never did know how much of a storm you threatened to become did you?
Neither did you remember how walking out on an evening which was striking into the night like a hammer, you were sparking onto a momentary bliss, and all I had was this expectation that the pain of burning could ease out this pain. But, then you would say swallows are shallow for wanting the same thing again and again. And I would be a sandstorm covering the footprints I left near the streaks of your tires which were nearly paintbrushes. Then again you are an evening that hammers the night till she becomes a seductress and I am childish lips drawn on the corners of a shirt collar to mimic kisses you should have left.

Was it fate that we fell in love in a desert town? Or was it fate that inevitably we ended up drowning. I meant to ask how many men you have drowned before me but, I know you would smile and I would be left drinking sandy waters on the banks of an oasis. Do you know palm trees smell of the way you spilled milk on the water to make it into an image reflected infinitely on the shores like the moon was. I knew your secrets, you wanted to see the moon have a blue stain, because you were always sans marks on your visage, something that lent uniqueness to your being.

If I could sail, I would sail with you, through the distant shores of endlessness, and I will drown too, much like lipstick stains do. Please do not let me put more acetone on the nailpolish wounds.

 

 

This is influenced by “Tomar Khola Hawa”, you can listen to the song below

The way you started as a fairytale, I almost wished that you never became my reality.

And yet, here you stand, four years hence, with the same smile on your face and you have not changed at all, and I am still trying to hold onto the shores while you become storm after storm. Would you believe if I told you that I have cried more for your sake than I did for my stupid depression? It’s fucked up really, and I feel like I need a smoke before I even sit down with these stupid posts.

I remember that night, I guess it was three in the morning and you asked me to a dance. I don’t understand why I danced. You hair was messed up and the music was some stupid indie band you were recently obsessed with, and I looked like a zombie out of hell. You swore you were not high that day, but, you left me with a hit that was bigger than all the smokes I had had in the past five years.

You motherfucking piece of shit you, God, I love you.

I want to sound edgy and make a comment that makes sense, I want to wear a gown to our wedding even though it seems impossible. But, moreover I want to wake up next to you like this, again and again until my breathlessness on seeing you is the norm and I don’t feel so scared anymore.

Heres to winters honey, heres to lovers galore and all the little things that sems to matter to you.

 

For the Women

Right now, at this moment I am taking a break from writing a novel about sexual abuse and the journey has been more or less traumatic. And this isn’t even the first one I have written this year. If there is anything I have realised over the past two years it is the simple fact that sexual abuse is much more common than we think. It takes a simple story, a simple poem, and you hear their  stories, their anger and their sorrow, because they feel an kinship with you.
And that is basically, why I have always been a very vocal advocate against sexual abuse in all forms. For, me the reasons to report any instance of sexual abuse with you or around you is very simple.

You deserve justice 
This is about you, and you matter more than anyone else when you have been made to feel this way. You have to report it because you deserve an escape from the tormentor. Also, it is in your basic right, this person has affected you in a way that will strain you, that will very possibly remain with you for a long long time. So, yes, no matter who did it to you, you deserve justice.

It spreads on

Blaming yourself is easy. Blaming yourself and telling yourself that you are the only one who will ever be affected by someone who sexually abused you is easy. But, even from my personal experience I can tell that the buck does not stop there. And there is always someone else who will be tormented just the same. The courage you would need, that is large and I do not deny that. However, remember that the fight is for a larger world, a safer world. The fight is for every other person you want to protect.

It is closure
Speaking to the survivors group helps a lot, I attest to that. However, you need to understand that knowing that there is a greater authority to deal with these cases. That even if there is no ultimate punishment, the person’s name is no longer untarnished helps. And because you have sought help out in a proper way, you have an unblemished soul. You have done your bit, and trust me that is a good closure. Even if this means you have to overcome your fear of police, you should do this, for yourself, if for no one else

Reporting sexual abuse is very important. And this video tells us about some rights relating to the same

“I’m writing this blog post to support Amnesty International’s#KnowYourRights campaign at BlogAdda. You can also contribute to the cause by donating or spreading the word.”