How dare you speak to my mom like this
He asked pounding her with his fists
The pent up anger to his boss
Coming out in his blows
She suffered in silence as his parents watched without a care
And she thought to herself… Dare or stay there
Melting away in the summer sun
Carrying in her bags, a quarter of a ton
Provisions, that’s cheaper in this one far away place
Money saved gives her children fruits for a few more days
So what if her blood thickened to carry the weight
Veins are muscles too, aren’t they?
As usual she flagged down her bus
As usual he ignored her and cussed
Continued to roll the giant wheels on the tar
And stopped his bus 50 metres afar
A mere second for Bolt, a lifetime for her
Yet wiping away her single tear
Limping with her shoe ridden with tears
She thought to herself… Dare or stay there
But when her child got a prize
Beaming with pride in her eyes
She rushed to hug and congratulate
But was greeted with disgust irritation and hate
Her warm gaze she turned to a stare
And finally thought to herself… I dare… And now, I don’t care.
Stop! She signalled with her raised hand.
Enough! She whispered to her husband.
Change… Coz you want to be spared
As I have dared… And stayed there!!
When down in the depth of despair, and depressed
You write, you sing, you create, to impress
But have you ever wondered, the lost power of your words
Sometimes, less is more and more is less
Daily you cry your silent song
You wail, you weep from dusk to dawn
Then you dust yourself and put your mask on
Coz at all costs, the show must go on
“He touched me here. He groped me so roughly, it hurt.” said Renu
“It was scary” shared Vinita. “He used to shut my mouth so that noone heard the screams”
Ritika looked around the room. She didn’t identify with any of the women. Or their stories. In fact she pitied them. Sympathised with their miserable existence. She wished she could help them or relate. But she couldn’t.
She was never abused. She was loved. Adored. So what if she was 8 and he was 38. She was in love. And if it was ok for the prophet, why wasnt it for everyone else?
Let’s end the session here, she suggested in her usual micromanaging tone. Ofcourse she wanted to be in control. She was used to it. She was always in control. Wasn’t she?
Can someone fucking care. Please.
Swooosh… I go through plants and trees
A wind, a tornado, a gentle breeze
Deftly from one intensity to another
I switch between with utmost ease
Sometimes sans control, sometimes at will
Sometimes the victim, at others, ready to kill
I swooosh through my days without a care
Like a bad habit or a mandatory fire drill
Sometimes I agree I stick to the norm
I’m music and love and cool when you are warm.
But then I flare up… With intensity doubled
I fight… I cry… I kick up a sand storm
When will I stop moving? This wasted life who will see?
Shadows of my memories, volcanoes of my past
Trap them, destroy them or let them be?
After all, aren’t they just versions of me!
Don’t leave me, don’t go, don’t let go of my hand
Don’t stand there, far away, and lie that you understand
The pain, the trauma, the agony I go through
The fear that daily this list will have something new
Something black. Something grey. Something dense in every way
Something hard. Something sharp. Something mean that on and on you harp.
The pain will go. The trauma will pass. Tomorrow I’ll be a new lass.
Happy as a button. Talking nineteen to the dozen
Enjoying the day… Come whatever may
Until, “… Then what was the big deal…” I hear you say!
Broken people we are
Lying scattered on the floor
Like pieces of a puzzle
Or the socks my dog tore.
Lay them out in order
Pick the best pieces
Patch them together
To form a complete us.
The rest of the bits
To keep or to throw
Or make another person
With the same core.