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This poem expresses a mother's angst, fury, desolation at her daughter's gang rape and gruesome murder at the hands of some sadistic perverts.
This poem expresses a mother’s angst, fury, desolation at her daughter’s gang rape and gruesome murder at the hands of some sadistic perverts.
Towards the end of the poem she expresses her determination to not relent in her efforts to seek justice for her daughter, punishment for her perpetrators and clear her name of the slur that the callous police and society have heaped on her character by calling her a slut who incited men’s lust.
One Dark Ominous Rainy night
The home lies desolate and still The fan whispers a shrieking trill, Your memories lie undone and scattered Grim thoughts roam unchecked and battered. For anyone, anything else, little do I care When looking at your smiling visage is a dare.
One dark ominous rainy night…..
Holed up, terrified, your mom you frantically called Helpless, terrified, I heard you being cruelly mauled. My baby’s pleadings piercing through the savage rain, My hands twitched to wrench them away, but in vain. My heart would skip a beat when my baby bawled. How am I alive when her breath the oppressors stalled?
Vituperative, remorseless, bereft of any spirits kindred The monsters still prance around, unbarred, unhindered. With vicious grins dotting the devils’ mouths They mock and taunt and jeer, the unrepentant louts. The lawkeepers empathized, promised to come They came, only to accuse you and ruin your name.
They thought your creator was gullible and naive, Now they’d realize why omnipresent God kept me alive, To exemplify a mom’s bottomless grit and determination, To penalize, discipline and extract retribution, To see the perpetrators cower, kicked and barred And restore your name, by the recalcitrant, scarred.
Published here earlier.
Image source: pixabay
Curious about anything and everything. Proud to be born a woman. Spiritual, not religious. Blogger, author, poet, educator, counselor. read more...
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She would serve everyone fresh food and serve herself the stale rice and curries from the previous meal. Some days after finishing the leftovers she was so full she would not even be able to even taste the fresh food.
When I married the first time, my MIL told me that during the Navratri the lady of the house should not eat stale food. ‘Gharatlya bai ni shila khau naye’ — in refined upper caste Marathi.
I was just 26, eager to please, not versed in patriarchy or feminism, and it seemed like a positive thing — respect for the goddess in woman.
But soon I realised she spent the remaining 356 days of her year finishing leftovers. And that I was expected to do the same.
Story - Beauty: Shreya wondered, ‘Are they talking about me?’ ‘But what is the use of inner beauty if the exterior is unattractive?’ Ravi asked. Her heart skipped a beat, and now she listened with the utmost alacrity.
‘Beauty is skin deep, Ravi. In the long run, it’s the inner beauty that matters. I know Shreya is smart and I find her attractive.’ It was Chetan’s voice.
Shreya had paused for a moment on the open door of Ravi’s flat when she overheard him. It was the morning of 27th March, and she had come to give Ravi his surprise birthday present. She didn’t want to eavesdrop, but the conversation had caught her curiosity.
She wondered, ‘Are they talking about me?’