If to remember is to find salvation, to forget is to be cursed to return to life

Magnitude

You cannot catch me in a fist
lock me in a room
transport me in tiny vehicles
a six-yard sari is hardly enough for me
I don’t fit into readymade blouses

Between the front and the backdoor
within two rooms and a portico
the year-round festivals
cannot frame me.

Hey you, the man on the beach
play as much as you can
and return home.

My waves have to carry
many more ships ashore.

*        *        *

Tell me a tale

Let there be seven seas, thunderstorms,
fire-spitting dragons in it.
Let there be a pet parrot, eating pearls,
mocking his demon master.
Let there be trouble at every step,
an unending maze, no way out.
I know all that and I am not scared.
All such tales end with a
‘living happily ever after’.

Tell me a tale
of the breath-choking hugs
under the neem tree
where dreams turn into his promises.

Tell me a tale
which can make me cry and howl
like a wounded animal
at the end of which
they come together
like lost children
finding each other by chance.

Once upon a time
there lived a princess
and the washer boy
was in love with her . . .

Such tales are rarely false.

*        *        *

Woman and blood

Tiny fingers cut and bleed
despite the warning not to touch
the knife.
Blood finally stops with a bandage
the little sobs continue even
after the hug and kiss.

All of a sudden growing up
brings new problems
Question papers are far easier
The next is still unknown.

Blood drops
on the playground
cycle seat
degree certificate
carpet in the hall
some bench some corner of a
park
cinema theatre
on the first love letter
wedding mandap
and on . . . the bed.

Later,
it’s a great effort to stop the blood
on it stands the honour of the
family
dynasties have tumbled
battles fought, hearts broken
even deaths are justified.

When finally it stops
my God, it’s like the churning of the ten oceans
and the butter emerges
bringing smiles to all the faces

White blood from the swollen
breasts
flows endless. Innumerable
legends,
myths and songs of praise . . .
It’s okay if the young pigeon
turns into a vulture later, it’s okay.

Then one day,
it really stops.
Permanently.
Tears, hopelessness,
even talks of hormone treatments.

But it’s time for getting ready to
go.

Someone once said
‘Blood relation means . . .’
I stopped him midway
‘I know, I am a woman.’