She sits there
amidst flashlight bulbs,
a sea of eyes and mouths.
Bathed in a pool of light
she sits, silent.
The lights are too weak
to trace the hollow in her eyes.
Or her eyes have ceased reflecting.
An angry buzz surrounds her.
Protests and heated debates.
The flames do not touch her.
She sits alone
in a crowd of well-dressed, learned people.
In her soiled saree
and comatose eyes
she looks a complete misfit.
Some marvel at her composure,
the strength of her mind,
the incomparable tolerance!
Their praises do not reach her.
Comforting fingers do not reach her.
She sits, stares blankly.
Perhaps memories crowd her brains so...
she can not think.
And then it's so hard to believe.
She doesn't cry.
Tears wouldn't heal the gaping wound.
Tears wouldn't fill the neat, round hole.
One could look through it
and see a death and a crowd.
Everybody claimed justice.
Perhaps she should claim him back.
She is too tired.
She needs some sleep.
She searches for his face
somewhere in the crowd
to take her home
and lull her to sleep.
Somebody is wishing her a happy Eid.
In the hollow cave of her room
away from prying eyes
and voices dripping in sympathy.
Sleep is an absurd commodity
her father can not buy. Nor her dead husband.
Things are so haphazard now
that she lives inside her head
and relives her short-spun life.
She despised tragic-heroines,
sacrificers and sacrificeds.Always!
And he knew.
Mother's hands are not so soft now.
They don't bring sleep.
She wonders why.
And her eyes;those twin pains!
They do nothing but see and dream.Him!
She never thought he'd torment her so
haunt her so...
He who promised he loved.
The pink on her wall is so bleak!
Layers of dust on green leaves!
And those inauspicious drums!
Her head aches!
This palatial prison suffocates her.
Mother's womb would be safer perhaps?
that box under the green turf...
inside it, beside him,
not yet turned to bones perhaps.
At least the grass above would be fresh and green
and the box cozy and warm.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
crazily rants The Mad Girl at 6:19 AM
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
They trampled it under their heavy spiked boots
with a vengeance weighed against wads of notes.
They jabbed at it viciously with naked hatred
lurking in the safe recesses of their goggles-clad eyes;
eyes snug and secure in not-seeing and shadows.
Their cold metal fingers pierced at it wildly
while imprecations rained on it
“his goddam fucking heart”-they called it.
It was a little red music box.
Small as a fist.
It sang of love
Unwavering, undying love
and danced too
to its own rhythm.
It took a battery of armed mercenary
to quieten that little music box
and bury the songs it sang.
Battering it to an eerie silence
they heaved cold sighs of relief
“his goddam fucking heart has stopped”
till she lifted her wide-brimmed eyes
and they read the words
poised calmly in the single film of tear
“it was my heart you stopped
and my song you buried”
They pulled back the goggles in place,
the lord and his henchmen
and retreated to their safe world
of shadows and not-seeing.
Unwavering, undying love-songs
reverberate in the plain once again.
P.S-I have used words here I strongly refrain from using in my real life. Not snobbery or anything...I apologise to those of my friends who find these words crude. The poem is dedicated to Rizwanur and Priyanka's love.
crazily rants The Mad Girl at 8:55 AM
Friday, October 05, 2007
crazily rants The Mad Girl at 9:54 PM