“well I simply have no clue, for we may believe that beauty lies in a certain shape or size, but perhaps, it lies in us too.”
i once read somewhere,
that in china,
girls are taught to shrink themselves,
since birth they are taught to wear a shoe
smaller than their actual size,
their feet are bound and choked
like the voices which long to come out of their throats,
the voices that have remained paralysed too long for them to know,
their feet are bound and choked,
until they become numb to the pain,
until they become used to a lifestyle of restrictions,
and start believing it’s sane.
i once read somewhere,
that in korea,
complexion is what helps you climb the ladder,
that being fair there,
is far more important than being free,
and beauty for them doesn’t lie in the eye of the beholder,
but rather in what cosmetic surgeons see.
i once read somewhere,
that in japan,
every girl is expected to be petite,
maybe because they fit easily into the arms of men,
or maybe because it’s easier for them to be controlled,
or maybe because a bigger body is a risky chance,
for their thoughts to be larger,
and reactions to be bold.
i once read somewhere,
that in india,
women try all sorts of things to lighten their skin,
that they put fair and lovely during the day,
and haldi at night,
that they listen to all the parminder aunties of the world,
in hopes to finally hear them say,
‘ah your skin tone is just right.’
but what i wished i had read is that,
in this world,
people are black, brown, white, red...
and they look beautiful regardless,
they are of sizes 0, 6, 8, 10..
and they look beautiful regardless.
so that if someone asks me one day,
what do people here do to look beautiful?
i’ll be able to say,
“well i simply have no clue,
for we may believe that beauty lies in a certain shape or size,
it lies in us too.”
they drank till their slight touches turned into slaps, and repeated their favourite line, ‘tu haan kar, ya naa kar, tu hai meri kiran.’
translation: ‘even if you say yes, or no, you are my kiran.’
my uncles liked having loud conversations,
they liked keeping count,
of how many people survived,
and of how many died,
they liked arguing over policies,
capitalist or communist,
conservative or socialist,
as if the leaders involved were just by passers,
diplomats in their monarchical world,
they liked to talk while chewing,
often spitting in each other's plates,
secretly staring verma aunty up and down,
her liberal mind was too much to bear,
some days were worse than others,
for they drank till their slight touches turned into slaps,
and repeated their favourite line,
'tu haan kar,
ya naa kar,
tu hai meri kiran,'
over and over again, every single time.
my uncles liked to take names,
calling the pakistani traitors,
and the bangladeshi bastards,
sharma uncle would always say that our politicians were corrupt,
that the strikes were staged,
and the roads were never built,
for the taxes we paid were rather used,
for their luxurious spa treatments,
and sarees of silk,
but he never dared to speak,
of the tea stained rupee notes that he slid,
to the man with stars on his vardi,
nor of the abundant notes he gave to his son's principal,
and how he just forgot to mention they were farsi.
but the women in our family,
well they never spoke,
they'd clear the tables,
throw away the seeds on the orange peels,
tidy up the washbasin,
while uncles smoked their pipes and went to sleep,
although they weren't literate enough to read,
and their lips remained steadily shut,
their ears always perked up,
for they longed to hear of a day,
when the headlines would talk about their win,
and the misogynists' defeat,
the day they could be the ones commenting on medha pathkar's feminist ideals,
and the outspoken female who only won one seat,
they would continue to scrub the spots of the dhotis which smelled like mrs.sharma,
and put cotton on their swollen bruises,
they would continue to nod and say 'no matter,'
and then leave to take care of chores,
for whether or not china chose to avenge itself,
whether or not the workers staged their strikes,
whether or not policemen took bribes,
they'd have to grow barley and pluck their weeds,
uncle would continue to come home at 11,
although the security guard said he left at 7,
friday evening dinners would still turn into political campaigns for the parties which paid more,
for even if the economy slows down,
and all those endangered are gone,
manages to go on.
Padmavati was the Queen of Chittor in the 13th century. She was married to Ratan Singh and was known for her surreal beauty. People yearned to even catch a glimpse of her exquisite features. Alauddin Khilji was one such man. However his greed and lust caused him to declare war against Chittor. When it became clear that he would win, Queen Padmavati made a decision which would go on to impact millions. She committed Jauhar which is defined as the act of mass self-immolation by women in parts of the Indian subcontinent, to avoid capture, enslavement and rape by foreign invaders, when facing certain defeat during a war.
Although the goddess like Queen died, Indian history immortalized her.
And this is her story.
p.s: part two coming soon:)
Praises of her pulchritude,
Fill the ancient halls of Chittor,
Hira Mani tells tales of her beauty,
The rajput warrior desires to know more.
She walks in her ghagra choli,
Embellished with heavy gold beads,
Blinding mirror sequins,
Like a lotus flower amongst weeds.
He reaches the doors of Singhal,
Wins the swayamvar as his duty,
Marries the legend of folk songs,
Padmavati, the epitome of beauty.
Nights in Chittorgarh seem like bright mornings,
For her divine glow ignites the sky,
Maybe that’s why the moon hides behind the sun
The Queen’s royal glamour makes it shy.
Alauddin follows the tittle tattle,
With his desire to own every precious thing on land,
Ratan Singh mistakenly prepares to battle,
But Queen Padmini is Khilji’s only demand.
Yet looks don’t limit to her charms,
She allows a glance,
Seeing her reflection is his only chance.
Furious sultan deceits the trusting Ratan singh,
His lifeless body falls to the ground,
Men with armours clench their shivering swords,
“Jai bhavani,” they scream as mughals surround.
Alauddin storms inside the majestic fort,
A surprise beholds his eyes,
Sixteen thousand women in crimson red ghagras,
Dressed as newlywed brides.
They’re more than enough to take him down,
But they don’t,
Instead they fill the palace with echoes of their cries,
Chanting, “jai bhavani”
Ready to sacrifice,
As each second, a braveheart dies.
Yearning to catch a glimpse of Queen Padmavati,
Khilji sprints across the halls,
He screeches as the gates close,
And she embraces the fire,
With no tears in sight,
For they may have killed the rajputs,
But Padmavati won this fight.
Aur yeh hi, Alauddin ki sabse badi haar thi.
In the Hindu epic Ramayana, Goddess Sita was known to be Lord Rama’s wife. She accompanied him in his 14 year long exile along side his brother Lakshmana. They spent a few years at Panchvati, also known as the site where Goddess Sita’s abduction by Ravana, the ten faced king of Lanka took place. She is often regarded as the embodiment of wifely devotion and self-sacrifice.
Fabric the colour of saffron,
On the eccentric green grass,
Her sari spread like rangoli’s rays,
Her thick silky hair,
Bound by elastic,
Few short strands flow,
With the breeze that blows,
Congested in a bijou hut,
Near the free fragnance,
Of dear Godavari,
Lies the confined heart of Panchvati,
The cold damp gufa,
Where sits the almighty shivaling,
Echoes her silent prayers,
Enclosed by 14 years of unfair penance and care,
Yet her genuine heart,
Sees no disguise,
A starving beggar appears,
Mouth full of hungry lies,
She steps out,
Crossing the holy line,
He doesn’t take a second to grab her,
And divine Panchvati loses its shine,
The elastic loosens,
Black locks gather apart,
Her shrill screams haunt the hut,
Remorse fills her heart,
They fly away in his grand chariot,
Ten faces laugh aloud,
Yet the sky cries with her,
Her anger as heavy as the storm cloud,
Panchvati bids goodbye to its queen,
Lord Rama shouts in agony,
For he failed his promise,
But long gone now is,
Sita, our Goddess.
“There may have been several ramas but only one sita.”
In light ofrecent protests and in hopes of a good result after today’s voting, here’s a poem on the nation’s capital:)
Buried sultans, Symmetrical gardens, And the smell of garam chai, Ramu kaka shouting ‘10 ka ek,’ And the vast crowd in chandni chowk, Still makes me sigh.
For these handwoven intricate shawls, The same colour as my jhumkas, Temples and mosques, Built in harmony, Are memories which cease to exist, Like rusted keys to ancient locks.
For now, All I know are, Everyday protests, By the voices which go unheard, The rebellious youth, Spraying graffiti on the blank walls, And my heart seems to rejoice, As the old conservative Dilli falls.
This city of ours, Is beginning a fresh journey, It’s finally bidding goodbye, To the oppressors which fill the station, The revolution is here, Here in Dilli, The forgotten yet rising, Heart of the nation.
Note: The events that happen in this poem are all real and happened on the night of December 16th, 2012 to a girl named Jyoti. Unfortunately she didn’t survive although, fought very hard to. Her death led to several protests across Indiaand sparked various questions against every Indian woman’s safety. Eventually, she became known as Nirbhaya, meaning; the fearless one. Her rapists are being hung 8 years later, a few days from now. Through this poem which was extremely painful for me to write, I hope to remind everyone that she was one of the most powerful women to exist and that her death was not in vain.
trigger warning: rape, sexual assault, violence.
11:00 PM. The film was beautiful, He and I walk hand in hand, There is a storm coming, They always come by surprise, Starting with light rain, And then hit unexpectedly, Always leaving a huge wound, One that could take years to heal, I had no idea, That soon there would be a wound so vast, So powerful, It’d scar me forever. Yet right now, I just wish to go home, After a long tiring day, That’s what we all want, right? —- 11:15 PM. He and I board the bus, There are only five people, Yet the night feels lonely, Maybe it’s just me? The driver looks at me, Turns forward, Looks at me again, Turns forward, Didn’t we already pay for a ticket? I turn to him, He’s not the………r….e……. —– 11:17 PM. Their hands on me are like a storm, Unexpected and unwelcomed, My body is the earth, Now filled with mud, Mud I can never get rid of. I scream, The hands only change, Yes, There are five of them, I close my eyes, Maybe not all of us get to go home after a long tiring day, Nevertheless, I want to survive. —- 11:25 PM. The driver changes, And so do the hands, My voice is gone, And so is any worth I had left, The men stop, And whisper amongst each other, What’s happening? And then it comes, The loudest scream this world has ever heard, This world once filled with distant stars and lonely nights, Now only lurks of unheard voices covered with horrendous sights, They take turns penetrating it, It’s silver and shiny, Dug deep in the ground when done, And used while making buildings, But, When did I become one? —- 11:28 PM. It takes all in me to look behind, I see two of them, Beating him up, Soon they’ll back, For their turn with me, I close my eyes again, I think of all those times I heard tales of such women on the news, I think of how they felt, And how I thought I’d never know. One of them looks younger than me, He’s a boy, I feel no mercy, Just pity, Something must be wrong with this country, For him to not be learning the power of books, But the power of rods. —- 11:30 PM. It’s over. I don’t feel my body anymore, I can’t lift an inch. ‘ Abh kya karna hai inka, Ram bhaiya?’ ‘Vo hi jo socha tha, Mukesh aur maine.’ Anger runs in my veins stronger than the blood, With all my might, I scream again, Mukesh slaps me, Picks my body up, Not forgetting to grab my breasts, And then removing his hands, Like they weren’t ripe enough for him, Ram grabs my friend, They throw us off the bus. —- 11:32 PM. I am lifeless, Naked, My body isn’t mine anymore, I don’t want it to be, I look over at him, And I remember how he was telling me about his dreams an hour ago, I think of my own, And how they seem even further away, Than the stars in the sky, Never will I ever get to wear a lab coat with pride again, Become a doctor and make my parents proud, My parents, Memories flash through my mind, Faster than this night seems to pass, With the tiny amount of strength I have left, I take the film ticket out of my pocket, For a second I’m reminded of how delighted I was when I bought it, I take out a pen from my other pocket, Slowly I scribble, As the words my mother said to me, The day I cried in her lap when I was 15, Repeat in my brain, Kabhi haar mat maarna, Jyoti. My body gives out, And the paper lies right where they entered me, Only four words remain on it, I want to survive. —- 11:35 PM. Himmat bhi nahi haari, Sahas bhi nahi gaya, Nirbhaya, Nirbhaya, Nirbhaya.
“The only way to get over a death is by seeing it as a life completed, instead of a life interrupted.”
From the shimmering stars in the vast sky, To the hazy people just passing by, Somewhere between the chaos, You gaze in the far distance, Utter my name in the softest cry, So darling, Here am I.
From the maddening screeches of the crow, To the soothing waves of the boat you row, Somewhere between these sounds, You miss someone you once knew, And sigh, So darling, Here am I.
From the ecstatic laughs of childhood in the street, To the table of two with one empty seat, Somewhere between these memories, You look up to the sky, Asking Him why, So darling, Here am I.
From the hairdresser’s uneven hair locks, To the cheeky kid’s mismatched socks, Somewhere between these imperfections, You show your toothy smile, Proud that she’s taught the world to be a little less shy, And though she’s gone now, You hear her in every mark she left, For the world isn’t black or white, You don’t live or die, So darling, Here am I.
i was going to write a sappy poem about how great 2019 was but i figured i should be somewhat real and talk about how our country is doing right now as the world’s largest *coughs* ‘democracy.’
Here, Just one shop sells dhokla, rasgulla, and halwa, Just one whatsapp group sends eid mubarak, merry christmas, and happy holi, Just one street has had ram mandir, and babri masjid, And when that one foreigner asks me about India, The first thing that comes to mind is, Unity in diversity, Ekta mai hi shakti. Lekin abh nahi.
For now, When I visit that one shop, I see that it’s once so welcoming doors, Are now shut, I ask kishore bhaiya why, He tells me, ‘Ahmed ke paas kaagaz nahi the.’ When I check that one whatsapp group, I see that the ‘same to you,’ Has been replaced by, blue ticks, For sometimes, Silence speaks louder than words.
And now, When I walk past that street again, Instead of groups of pilgrims, with devotion in their eyes, And faith in their hearts, I still see groups, But of people trying to scream loud enough. For their voices to be heard, Of people who haven’t gone home in 134 days, Of people who seem to have lost the spark, Who seem to have lost hope.
Hope that one day, They’ll see Ahmed again, That one day their father in law, will see past the clothes on their body, And the name they chant, And when that foreigner asks them about India again, One day, Unity in Diversity, Will be the first thing they’ll say.
But when it comes to you, You and I both know that’s not true.
I keep imagining, That when we coincidentally collide, And my eyes get a glimpse of your familiar face, All those memories filled with a mix of pain and hatred, Would rush through my veins, And I would put on a cold outside, Murmur the most harsh, ‘Nice seeing you,’ And force my pierced feet, To walk away.
But when it comes to you, You and I both know that’s not true.
For darling, It takes everything in me, To not melt into your wide arms when I see you, Because with your vanilla scented hoodie, And stupidly charming aura, I can just be.
And when the world stops moving, And the tik-toks pause, Is when you and I will meet, And I’d ask you how you’ve been, ‘Just fine,’ would form on your lips, And I’d think how having long eyelashes, With dark brown eyes should be a sin.
And no matter how much I try to hide, You’d read me so easily, For my face would scream come back please, And you’d know in a second, The kind of power, You so effortlessly, Still keep.
For even seeing your ever so alluring face, Would cause my petite hands to quiver, And pale legs to shake.
And this is the 597th night I gift to you, Trying to make up, For all the sleep you lost because of me, And all the love in your dark brown eyes, That I could not, oh for the death of me, see,
And this is the 597th night I gift to you, Trying to make up, For those 4 birthdays I wished you giftless, And the aching pain in your heart, You chose not to express,
And this is the 597th night I gift to you, Trying to make up, For all those times I didn’t notice, how that deeply soothing voice of yours, Almost as rough as that ten year old couch in your house, But as homely as it made it your room feel, Called out for me, When I was too immersed in creating expectations, not a single soul, Could ever meet,
And this is the 597th night I gift to you, With a blue bow like an icing on the cake, And for the comforting closure we never had, For even seeing your ever so alluring face, Would cause my petite hands to quiver, And pale legs to shake,
And this is the 597th night I gift to you, Trying to make up, For all those times I never looked you in the eye, Didn’t appreciate the things you said, Or the teddy bear in my sack, The taste of oreo silk in my mouth, And your swift arms wrapped around my back,
And this is the 597th night I gift to you, Trying to make up, For every night we could have spent staring at the distant, Yet, Ethereal stars, Hoping that one day your head will rest on my shoulder again, I’ll trace your hair, And this gifted night would finally become, Ours.