I am a women and I am beginning to feel uneasy about it

I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I hesitate to leave the office door unguarded when I’m alone,
Or keep the window open.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I lock the door to my veranda,
Unsure about the boys next door.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
My mother worries herself when I’m late,
And badgers me to be home before dark.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
So I rush down for the 6.45 p.m bus home.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I listen carefully when a man compliments about my looks,
Wondering if he’s being corny.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I feel uneasy when strange me ogle at me on the street.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
Whenever I visit a public toilet,
there is a lurking fear of being attacked.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
Even though I am supposed to be 48% of the population.
I’m not as rare as a tiger,
That you can sell every part of me and make a killing.
I’m as common as a crow,
And commonality does not ensure security.
I am an object,
That can be sexually gratifying.
And a growing number of men, just cant keep their semen inside them.

-written on-
10/3/04

9.30 a.m

The Death Penalty

So just who are you Mr. Judge?
And just who are you Mr. President?
Who made you the Honorable Judge?
Who made you the Honorable President?
In My Democracy.
Was it my vote?!
So just how much did you know, 14 year old Hetal Parekh, Mr Judge?
(just so we know how much you felt for her)
And just how much did you know, Dhananjoy Chatterjee?
The same questions to you to Mr. President.
In what judgement did you sit Mr. Judge?
Was it legal, was it moral?
Of whom do you make an example off
and for whom?
Did you give life to Hetal Parekh, Mr. Judge?
Did you give life to Dhananjoy Chatterjee.
Maybe you did Mr. President?.
Did you?
What is ‘life’, to you Mr. Judge?
And when does it become precious, Mr. President?
Whom did you hang, when 15,310 people suffocated to death in Bhopal and 3,00,000 were maimed by Union Carbide?
How many people did you hang when the Children of Kumbakonam roasted in their school?
Where did you hang the officials, who rotted grain and caused starvation deaths in Orissa, Rajasthan, Maharashtra and in other states of India?
Why didn’t you hang the politicians of Andhra Pradesh and Maharashtra who’s ‘politics’ have caused scores of debt ridden farmers to kill themselves?
And whom do we hang for the destruction the nuclear tests have brought, on a poor tribal community in Rajasthan?
So just who are you Mr. Judge?
And just who are you Mr. President?
Who made you Judge?
Who made you President?
In my democracy.
Was it my vote?!

-written on-
14th September ‘04
10.45 a.m

The Fangs of Creativity

Creativity, pressed its two fangs,
Lightly upon my shoulders and pushed.
I did not move.
The fangs threatened to pierce,
And it pushed a little harder.
I did not move.
The pressure on my shoulders grew
A little harder
And my mind shook.
More pressure,
Strong and steady
My confidence shook.
The fangs pierced the first thin layer of skin
And the push grew harder,
My body swayed,
First by a millimeter, then by an inch,
And my step fell, backwards,
Harder and harder it pushed,
Step by step, backwards I went.
Until I felt the smooth, unyielding wall behind me.
Move, it commanded,
With a growl that resonated from deep within its diaphragm.

-written on-
1/12/04
8.45 p.m

Shift the ‘Centre’ of the terms of discourse East

Where would I be without the Portuguese?
And where would you be without the British?

Yes, what about Imperialism and Colonialism?

Aren’t those the words and concepts foisted on us?,
By the Imperialists and Colonialists themselves.

Where would you be without their definitions?

-written on
6th September '04
8.30 p.m

The children of Kumbakonam

Thousands of children die per day in this country from mal-nutrition
and preventable diseases,
so why do you cry for me?
We were just 90 among the billion,
You could (easily) have 90 more,
why do you cry for me?
Lakhs of children like me roam the streets, collecting garbage,
Getting whipped and brutalized by the police and strangers,
So why do you cry for me?
Multitudes of children like me,
Work in brick kilns, making carpet, weaving, making bangle,
and the fire cracker industry.
Die maimed, a shortened life and a painful death,
So why do you cry for me?
Lahks of children before me and countless after me,
will have their dreams and hopes and emotions, trampled and charred,
Like our bodies in Kumbakonam,
So why only do you cry for me?
Don’t make an exhibition of me.
I don’t want Mrs Sonia Gandhi sanctioning one crore for our families,
I don’t want Tamil Nadu to order all schools to change their thatched roofs,
excuses, to sanction money that never reaches the poor like me,
excuses to buy the pain in my mothers breast, she cant produce another me.
I don’t understand this country,
That cares not for its little people,
Who will siphon money meant for the education and health of their young citizens?
Who will inject fake medicines and choke them to death,
Who will sit in their AC rooms, not breath the air I breathe, not hear the cries I hear, not eat the worms I eat, and nonchalantly plan my future?
I don’t think I want to be born in this country again.

-written on-
21st July 04
9.53 a.m

Awaiting doom

The sun sets and I shiver,
The nocturnal beasts of life,
Come alive.
Take deep breaths, puffing out their chests.
Ready to work.

The strength drains out of my limbs.
A drooping plant in the sweltering heat of summer,
limp,
Waiting for the propagator of doom to descend
upon me,
One more conquered.


4th May 1999

Women

Women
Half the population,
Whose soul is buried in delicate limbs and soft lush hair.
She is the beautiful creature,
Tamed, around the same time as the dog,
The milch cow,
To every society,
The shadow in every home,
The ghost, in every mans life.

24th April 1999