Reading Time: 3 minutes
An intense, woman-centric poem, by Nalini, that tells us about the sufferings of faceless girls. A Different Truths exclusive.
It’s not about those who get flushed out surreptitiously
as a scarlet blob between thighs
Neither is it about those who are scraped out of wombs
With rusty tools of quacks in back alley
Nor those who are buried alive
Or abandoned on dumpsters to be eaten by wild dogs
It’s about those who make it into the world midst
middle class moral compunctions
no less despised or resented
Guilt is not only for evildoers
It’s also the gift of our collective consciousness to the girls
who turn a deaf ear to laments that follow their birth
and refuse to die.
It finds roots in the softest hearts and feeds on affection
for disgruntled progenitrix, unfair tutelage
sucking out the last dregs of self-love
until they are housebroken to be good girls
for the rest of their lives
A good girl is the one who can never do enough
or be enough to assuage the trauma she caused
by simply being born
So, she carries a thousand deaths beneath her tongue
and swallows one every time she has to choose
between being happy and being good
yet falls short every single time
It’s not about those missing girls
who turned into statistics in census registers
It’s about those who lead invisible lives
persona non grata in homes they dare not call their own
stuck within the gilded frames of happy family portraits
entirely dispensable if the honour of the clan so demands
sacrificial lambs to pander the fragile male egos
of those who think they own them
It’s not about those voiceless victims of patrimony
who were throttled before they could utter a sound
It’s about those who are treated as trophies
wrapped in silks, dripping with diamonds
They do just fine as long as they know
when to smile coyly and when to retreat into shadows
God forbid if they ever acquire
a mind of their own or sprout a tongue
It’s about those who break through the cracks of concrete
like daisies on a busy sidewalk and court whirlwinds
the girls who refuse to die
Some turn into fire-spitters even if it singes their own feathers
Some turn into rainbows keepers refusing to be confined
within drab walls of conventions
Some turn into ocean cuddlers, spreading their arms wide
to embrace their destiny and all those who share it
Some turn into sword swallowers, gutting the barbed jibes
in the pit of their stomach
Some turn into fragrance detectors, sniffing out
the sore hearts to heal them as they heal themselves
Some turn into fake family fishers, smiling and posing
For gilded frames as their innards melt
Some turn into pecan pickers, harvesting, shelling, husking
and ginning their lives to make some sense of it
Some turn into silver unicorns, chasing elusive
cotton candy clouds into the twilight of life
Some turn into everyday goddesses, balancing domesticity
with dream catchers and hang on to the silver lining
They survive, somehow
the girls who refuse to die
to maintain the semblance of normalcy
so that, we continue to take pride in the heritage
that persecutes them
systematically.
Picture design Anumita Roy
