MELANIN

Few days back I was deeply disturbed and hurt by some people on sns invalidating my Indian culture, my people, our skin color, and Country in general. It still is shocking for me as to how some people can so easily spread hatred and despise a part of humanity for no reason at all. I am sharing few screenshots that mostly triggered me emotionally.. and all of the hurt led to me writing few lines. Hope you all read it and share your opinions .

Few Screenshots of those disturbing tweets..

MELANIN

My Melanin, I wear it with pride
All the fairness, dark patches, pigmentations, and everything in between
I wear them with pride.

The world is not black and white,
Neither some fifty shades of grey.
The world I see, is like refracting rainbows and peacock feathers… My Indianness, a part of that.
Uprooted from my ancestors,
Pushed on from generation to generation, And I wear it all with pride.

Writing Suicide Notes In Black Ink

Is there something wrong inside my head?
I keep on wishing I were dead
Will writing about it help?
I think I am broken…
Threatening existence – testing faith –
Despair and depression comes
knocking on my door, Often…

I don’t ask for help
For I don’t know what I would say.
I just know deep inside
Something is killing me –
My mind is willing me –
To death, yes that’s the way.

Sometimes I question,
Was a Bertha always in me?
And I unleashed her now – Right?
Because this madness inside – I can’t fight.

And the thoughts – oh the beautiful thoughts
Of red wrists – hanging heads –
Of cutting myself up with a dull multi-tool ,
Seeing the blood ooze out, a pool !

Those feelings – oh how I want to feel
The numbness as a blunt blade skates through my skin
The struggle in breathing as I hang myself and a rough rope slits my throat out and in.

Why can’t I stop thinking of Self-harm ?
They say, It’s a sin.
Doxepin – Zoloft – Prozac – Will you keep me firm ?
Because they say, Pharmaceuticals will one day help me win.

Now it’s been more than a year.
Drowning still seems near,
No sky looks pink,
And I am still writing suicide notes in Black ink.

“HER TRADITIONAL NIGHT” (A poem against Female Genital Mutilation.)

Note: This poem is based on the practice of FGM, a practice that most societies consider holy. But FGM is a sin, a sin against humanity. We must know that not only does it break the strength of women, it also breaks their souls. Please, if you are in a society where FGM is practiced then please do not sit and watch or read about it on newspapers and mourn the loss of women who go through it. Instead, educate the people on the need to leave souls untouched, in order for them to help the bodies grow.

I want to give a voice to all the unheard cries of women  who had to go through FGM so that people understand their plight. And so I dedicate this poem to all the women who had to suffer because of this insanity carried out in the name of religion and tradition.

 

 

“HER TRADITIONAL NIGHT”

Alone but far from alone
she bloomed like a delicate flower.
A beautiful child
she grew in sun and shower.
Then soon came that night – that long painful night.
The night when she saw her mother weep bitter tears.
‘What is it mother? Should I weep too?’ she asked.
Just a child, she knew not of the predestined fears.
Putting her hand upon the little girl’s head, the mother caressed her.
Showed her the bed.
Said, ‘it is your traditional night love, lay down here.’

Her traditional night.
The night when several women held her hands and feet – holy act or a sin?
She could see the blade like shape approaching.
Wondered what was in between her legs – such a wrong thing?
And then began the slaughtering.. Passing a blunt and cruised blade, they   rubbed through her clit.
Stuffing a cloth into her mouth,
muffled her screams and continued with the slit.
The cutting – not done yet.
The blade –  not sharp, shit..
And the blood ?                               Flowing like piss – warm and fresh.
The little girl kept groaning in vain.
Oh ! Felt as if in front of a butcher..
And she, a pig of only ten brought in for the slaughter.

Million painful moments passed.
One woman then whispered into her ears..
‘You are now pure. You are now circumcised.’
Slowly, her screams subdued.
Her womanhood, mutilated.
And no one cared.
After all, it was all a holy sight.
After all, it was her traditional night.

“Pastel”

Yes, I love him like pastel,
my pastel blue bucket bag.
Carry his heart on the edge of my sleeve
as though it is a childhood locket,
still holding my picture naked.

But there have been days,
dark, sinful days..
Days when sweet memories would fade out,
leaving behind the ghost of a man
haunting, dancing
on the delicate tight rope
between what was meant to be
and what should truly be.

Yes, I still love him like pastel,
my pastel blue bucket bag.
But nothing remains now,
So finally I pray…
“Oh Lord
when you
give me
my due,
Will you paint
my soul
in  pastel blue…. ?”

“Hoping to taste Marlboros someday, she smiles.”

Smoke drifts up and up,
As cigarettes sweep into her lungs
perfectly in sync with her heavy breathing…
From the end of the slim white stick
Residual ashes fall, cold and powdered.
She can hear it singe- the paper burning;
She can feel the thing- a beautiful sadness inside her soothing;
Almost done now.
The empty filter of tar burns and comforts her life’s lies….
Hoping to taste Marlboros someday, she smiles.

 

“When She Fell in Love with His Lavani Dance.. “

Note: This piece is inspired from Lavani. Lavani means “beauty” and is a folk dance of India performed by Women, on the beats of “Dholki”. It is mostly performed in the states of Maharashtra, North Karnataka, and southern Madhya Pradesh. In our society it is believed that Men should not perform Lavani and those who do, are judged and insulted by the society or are considered effeminate. But here I want to question that what if someone is effeminate..? Who are you to judge..? Also, I feel art is beyond all these binaries created by our society. Therefore I wrote this piece as a form of awareness for humanity and also to portray the sad picture of our society..

————————————-

She often saw him dance.
Away from the world,
Under the gulmohars..
Felt as if he was in a beautiful trance..
And in that divine moment
She fell in love with his Lavani dance..

She was scared..
But that day she dared,
“You stole my heart and never gave it back.
Now can you give me a forever..?
We will be together,
And I will watch you dance..”

He kissed her hard.
And like the blooms of a scorching Indian summer
Their hearts bloomed with love.
That scorching Indian summer – a tale of their desires so pure and naive.

The aftermath was a fairytale.
They walked hand in hand
But their love was not “normal”
People would tell.

She told him to shed his insecurities and reveal himself more…
But people had their own judgements and they were sore.
“Stop your effeminate dancing, its queer.
Wash that red off your feet before you come near..”

He payed no heed,
Danced to the rythm of her heartbeat.
But then the line got crossed
And she was the one who was cursed the most..
“He will never be a husband, will offer nothing much,
Better leave this society with your shameless trans..”

Her insult finally ceased his alta clad feet.
His smile grew dimmer,
Her sorrow sang its own woeful bit.

But soon he extinguished the final flame.
And she could only scream holding his dead frame,
“You took your life like sometimes lovers do
But I want to tell you my love,
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you…”

Now this is the story, Dear Straight people.
She dared to love unconditionally
And she was one of you.
And there was a time….
A time when they walked hand in hand,
When she fell in love with his Lavani dance.

“What if I am another Shikhandi?”

Note : I wanted to write something on LGBTQ and therefore thought would take inspiration from India’s greatest Epic Mahabharata. But in order to make sure that everyone understands this piece it is important to know about ‘Shikhandi’.

Decades have crossed, but the winds still whisper the name of Shikhandi. In Mahabharata, Shikhandi was not a glorious character like Pitamaha Bheeshma who was a symbol of sacrifice, Warrior Karna who always was a tragic hero, third Pandava Arjuna, the devotee of lord Krishna and the ultimate winner. But if the success means proving identity; then it can go through various ways and Shikhandi was one of the successful endemics in Mahabharata. Shikhandi was born a woman. But the Rishis told King Draupada, who was the father of Shikhandi, that she would one day become a man and aquire a male body. Though born a female, Shikhandi was raised as a son and was taught warfare and statecraft. She was even given a wife. And it is believed that finally Shikhandi met a Yaksha called Sthunakarna and was able to aquire his manhood. So there has always been a doubt about Shikhandi’s true identity and hence has been considered a transgender.. My today’s piece is inspired by this story of Shikhandi.

 

What if I am another Shikhandi….?”

End this discrimination, it hurts.
I too am Lord’s creation,
made of flesh, blood and a heart.
A disgrace to humanity ; some say I am cursed.
I think they forgot,
The same female womb- source of my birth.

Mindless youngsters mock and laugh
and play their guessing games as I walk.
“Lumps or balls? or none of the two?”
I want to ask, “what if both? what would you do?”

A form I want to fill,
But which box do I tick?
Grown sick of all these,
wish my mother had taken a pill.

Existing without any identity I lost my Self,
Woolf’s Sublime Meditation on Gender did no help.
Now to all the wise men I tell;
“Look in-between the binaries,
and go back on history.
What if I am another Shikhandi….?”

 

“A Raped Soul.”

Photo Credits – Madhurjya Borah

 

 

Once upon a time, there lived a little boy.
He said he was scared..
And uncertain of his existence.
Wait..
Wait a second,
Can you hear his voice..?

“Can you hear my voice..?
I can still hear mine.
The way I cried STOP….
But he said, ‘Shh….’
And I made no noise.

He touched me..
Said he loved me.
It pained,
I restrained.
But then he hit me, ripped my shirt..
Pushed himself in, to a point where it hurt.
Absurd
Unreal
The power he had over my body and heart…

I see children being loved…
Loved by their parents.
But can I understand that word called LOVE..?
I guess my Father shoved the wrong definition between my thighs.
I was eight
My mind, terrorized.

Now, dirty from malice
I have a body – disgraced.
My soul – raped. ”

 

“Let Loose..”

 

Oh Victoria, your secret hurts.

But she has to keep.
‘Keep what…? The secret…?’
Yes… And the pain.

She wants to let loose.
Let loose her hair…
Go braless.
But they call it shame.

‘Push up now..’ they say.
There are worms inside your skin.
Let the wire of the cups dig inside your flesh.
But she is scared.
‘What if the catterpillars turn into butterflies…
and die in a day..?’

They are least bothered.

Bras offend.
So do your curves.
And you know what? So does a flat chest.
So layer them up.

‘What? You can’t breath easy..?’
Because you are not supposed to.
Has history taught you nothing…?

 

“A Pious Disgrace”

“It is that time of the month” they say and shrink back…
Is it the time to smell the iron and the shame between my legs..?
Or
Is this a gift of Innana that courses through me?

I hear them whispering, gossiping.
And those warnings,
they never stop coming;
“Watch out for your daughter, it is that time of the month… ”
The flow might wake up my hoe soul.
They worry.
And what if I spread my legs?
Sin? Yes… unforgivable, Sin.

I too worry.. But our worries differ.
As I continue to shed my insides, I worry…
“How they never noticed the cry of my body ?
How they never acknowledged
that life comes from between our legs,
that life costs blood…… ”

Such hypocrisy… astounding.
When humane they despise.
When idols they worship.
A pious disgrace, my existence.