By: Varinka Turquoise
When skies slowly turns blue
I will be polishing my son’s shoe
You know, it awfully rained last afternoon,
But sun rose soon
Oh what a day?
To my man, I’ll have nothing to say
I was to dry his shirt which I just washed
But the overwhelming droplets that recently gushed
spoilt my day
In a bad way;
He is an angry man
Who drives a caravan,
Now what will I say?
For, he might be on his way.
His arrogance once killed my unborn kid,
And now I see the cigarette he just lit,
Oh! He’s on my door.
He will abuse me, call me a whore!
Because his shirt was washed and wet
He’ll now abuse, compare me with the women he just met;
Oh! What a life?
He never considered me his wife,
Now I want someone to call my own,
Or just want to go away from home,
I want a child to ease my fright,
I don’t know why I can’t fight for my right.
It again rained and it was dark
And here I was sulked to hear him bark
I ready with my dagger opened the door,
Without a sound I killed, leaving him on the floor
Now I live in tranquility and my womb fiddles with joy
After 9 months I gave a birth to a baby boy.
Who now wedded a woman from the East;
And looking for love I faded in the mist,
I am no longer a wife or a mother
I now wish that I had a brother.
Such is my fate
That is filled with hate,
Unthought-of it when vermilion was tinged on my forehead;
I sadly give up and consider them dead
A husband, a son, their gender, males!
With their memories, my every attempt to live, fails.
Poet’s note: A plight of women somewhere in Bihar.