Posted in Conflict, Family, life

द्वंद

इस घर में मैं ही हूँ,
यहाँ मखमली तकियें सिलवटों की राह ताकते हैं,
चार दीवार की खामोशी में,
खिड़कियों से बस कुछ लोग झाँकते है।
वो घर और था,
जहाँ मेरे अपने आते जाते थे,
वो दिन थे जब माँ की गोद मयस्सर थी,
और एक थपकी पर सपने आते थे।

जब नानी रातों को घंटो किस्से सुनाती थी,
हाथ सर पर फेरकर,
परियों के साथ सुलाती थी,
वहांँ नाना रोज़ मिठाई लाते थे,
खामोशी ने नहीं किया था कब्ज़ा वहां,
सुबह से शाम बच्चे खिलखिलाते थे।

वो घर अब बस एक याद है,
शाम की अज़ान अभ भी कानों में गूंजती है,
नानी के हाथ के अचार का लभ पर अभ भी स्वाद है,
वहांँ की कुछ दीवारें टूटी हुई थी,
छत से बूंदे टपकने के बाद भी,
शामें वहांँ के नज़ारो ने लूटी हुई थी।

इस घर में मैं ही हूँ,
यहाँ संगमरमर का फर्श भी चुभता है,
और अलमारियों में खामोशी बन्द है,
वहाँ लोगों से नोकझोक होती थी,
अब बस तनहाइयों से द्वंद है।

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Posted in Self love

Serendipity

Loneliness will kill you,
They say.
For me, it brings more,
Life to my soul.
Like serendipity.

Like breathing fresh air,
Into each dead cell.
Finding comfort in my,
Own skin, than shedding it
Away to be anew. Estranged.
Like a lost child find home,
Or his favourite toy.
Like a lover find his muse.
Like the roots having spread,
Endlessly,
To finally quench thirst.
Like serendipity.

Getting to know my deepest secrets,
Re-live the brightest of memories,
Kiss my own fingertips,
Heal my own wounds,
Smell my own shampooed hair. Caressing.
Become my own best friend.
Trusting, bonding. Unbreakable.
Spend evenings with myself,
A book maybe. Discovering.
In loneliness, will you find yourself,
Find yourself.
Like serendipity.

Blame the Rekha

She sat under the thatched roof,
Saffron-clad, serenity.
A big red circle between her brows,
Beautiful and infinite.
There she thought of Rama,
Her husband who had gone out,
Like all men do.
Then Lakshmana, wise enough,
to draw her a boundary as he left.

Boundaries.
For safety, a precaution, a limit,
Set by him. As men are limitless.
But a woman must think.
She must think what she would wear,
Not her favourite dress, but a dress,
An inch longer, maybe two.
She must think of what she speaks,
Regulate her giggles, suppress them
But men must laugh.
Loud enough to mute every bit,
Of estrogen in the same room.

But what was she wearing?
A saree, yes. Maybe the blouse,
Was too tight?
Was she too polite and welcoming?
Aren’t all of us brought up to be that way?
But through the pages of history,
The woman was proved wrong,
To have crossed a line.
A pure soul, that of Sita’s
Was questioned, accused.

After hundreds of years,
Nothing has changed.
A rekha is drawn every time,
I avoid wearing red lipstick for a meeting,
Or sit comfortably with my legs apart,
brilliantly termed as ‘Manspreading’,
Or wear a crop top with high waist jeans,
Or hot pants,
Or jeans with a waist too low,
When I go out undone,
When I can’t be out in the dark,
When the windows of passing cars are rolled down,
As I walk down the street after a party.

Blame the glittery short dress.
Blame my favourite high heels.
Blame my long, messy hair.
Blame my loud, carefree laugh.
Blame my skin-tight jeans.
Blame my new Kurta.
Blame my sequined saree.
Blame my short skirt.
Blame my long skirt.
Blame my neon bra under white.
Blame my lingerie under the black Burkha.
Blame the rekha.
You draw.

Image source: https://www.google.co.in/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fpbs.twimg.com%2Fmedia%2FB9T6r3hCcAAfBL9.jpg&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Ftwitter.com%2Faryamanbodh&docid=tYAlahu-orco4M&tbnid=WXJKu04m6nq2lM%3A&w=540&h=540&bih=662&biw=1366&ved=0ahUKEwiv4vyS1uLPAhVLzFQKHfeRDWcQMwhKKCYwJg&iact=mrc&uact=8

 

Posted in Prostitution

A hushed lie

A tear drop in my eye,
Turns dry before even,
Touching my skin,
As you grip my waist.
The cold metal of your big ring,
Gives me a tickle,
As your hand moves downward,
In search of more flesh.

Then pushing me away,
You look into my eyes first,
Then at my voluptuous curves,
Draped in a red saree.
With this you sit in the back of your chair.
A signal for me to unveil,
And so I do,
With the finesse of a stripper.
Something I knew not of,
A few years ago.

You gape with your greedy eyes,
An invisible drool,
A deaf roar.
I know what you want,
My experienced nails burying into your back,
My long hair falling on your face,
As you showcase your manhood,
The proof of which,
Is me moaning and sweating.

As a kid I was told I had beautiful lips,
Engaging eyes,
Now no one seemed to notice.
Flesh is chewed off my bones,
Every night.

And this is what I have become,
An untold story,
A hushed lie,
A taboo,
Yet, a reality