They woke up in the minute curves of my vagina,
scared, flustered, baffled,
touches and nightmares bewildering the reality;
violation is THE rule,
resist the circus, laughed the fool.
The red, the sacred,
the elixir was devoured
in the dark, in whispers!
Hush! Hush! Hush!
A violated female must not be named,
the doors shall reprimand,
another violation shall command,
touches and nightmares forced into oblivion,
scratches – ah! The serrated bangles,
heavy!
A clandestine transformation…
Hush! Hush! Hush!
A violated female has forgotten
Her language, her name.
This is where it ends – the story
the narration!
Masquerading through my verse –
And once upon a time,
in the delusion of a coma
they escalated in their variegated glamour,
nth, n-plus-one,
and so on,
driving the arithmetic progression,
faster – violating their unconditional love,
vexing the lawmakers,
irking the creators,
rejecting the definitions,
they walked along,
they ran along,
they jumped along;
degrees and doctorates stopped chasing them.
I’m trying to put them in prison,
Imprisoned imperfections…
chiselled crinkled imprisoned imperfections,
curved with dedication,
delicately infuriating the machismo,
altering the rules of hide and seek,
shame, a new nomenclature,
for the imperfect body, the imperfect soul.
They woke up in the minute curves of my vagina,
scared of the silver anklets,
the golden chains dancing in violation
of their existence,
of imperfect stories of a bride to be,
of suppressed memories,
and a past.
They were discarded as someone else’ story.
Artwork credit: Shubhrajit Roy (with Picassa and Adobe Photoshop inputs from Prosenjit Pal)
