Month: April 2017

Feminism; The bullshit – III

I

II

III

And it hurts!
Her
And you too
Hearing about feminism again and again!
The very sound of the word is such a pain!
“You aren’t treated wrong, dear girls!
What exactly are the problems that you’re facing?
Apart from periods
And men ogling at you
And the fact you don’t get to roam a lot at night
But are all these really worth this much fight?
Sure, we understand you can’t wear everything you want
But still, hasn’t this been met with too many of your taunts?
And what about the times when you get your things done
When you break our hearts,
When you manipulate us,
Emotionally rape us
All those jokes on wives
Well, they were based on our lives!
And you! You as mothers are extolled everywhere
The one figure about whom the whole universe has always cared
And now you have reservations in all premier institutes!
And yet here you are! So destitute?”

It’s a shame how we haven’t grabbed your buttocks in a crowded bus,
And you haven’t felt the joy of simply ignoring us,
It’s a shame that you don’t make it to the headlines
If you stay at your workplace beyond deadlines,
So, women have been respected as mothers, it seems.
And yet, we’ve refrained her from pursuing her dreams
we don’t let her continue her studies
Not even till a matriculation degree
And sure job has always been out of scope
Since for independence she shouldn’t ever hope
Either that
Or she must be a superwoman
Breaking all forms of dependency
Shuttling between job and home
Handling it both with godlike proficiency
Women after all, must do it all
And men, meanwhile, can laze around
Since women are precious and women are strong
And they don’t need anyone to support them along
So, with a monthly credit in the “joint” account
We, as children should also be her priorities
We, as husbands should also be her priorities
We as her parents, We as her in-laws
We must impose on her our own set of clause,
So, she mustn’t think about herself!
No!
Never at all!
That would be absolute selfishness
It’s bullshit!
When we say women aren’t equally treated!
If not equal, we treat them better!
We worship them as goddesses for fuck sake!
We send our daughters to school,
We set on her no rules,
(Just a little fire in absence of dowry)
And yes she might have to come home a little early,
She might not do everything she desires,
But a little sacrifice
Is a part of her life!
And we have asked her to accept the world outside,
Ready to masturbate at her very first sight
That, my friend, is so acceptable
It’s just her act of exploring her basic rights that is wrong
And single women everywhere are just screaming for sex, aren’t they?
So, when you see men visiting her, she must be sleeping with them.
Hence, don’t let her find a home in a new city
The whole society will turn impure with her mere proximity
And then it’s bullshit!
The word consent.
You are not entitled for it if she is your wife
You are not entitled for it if she is NOT your wife
It pains to have a vagina
Literally
Metaphorically
But then it’s still a bullshit
The blood every month
The cramps every month
The way you have learnt and seen
How it’s right “to just stick it in”
And how she would immediately moan in ecstasy
Well, she wouldn’t!
She would scream in pain.
And you must take it for “asking for it” again.
Consent.
What does it even mean?
Why does it even matter?
It’s matter of a few minutes, right?
A small fraction of an otherwise uneventful night
Sure she can handle it!
Women after all can tolerate.
Men can’t.
SO, she better not tells you what to do
And what not to
Violation of which, by the way, is a perfectly good reason for you to insult her
To physically assault her
And during that she must adhere to silence
As a perfect wife, she must also tolerate domestic violence
And somehow it’s still always the women who must be judged
Even when she charges money for your lust
Even when she doesn’t
Even when she wants it
Even when she doesn’t
But then women are precious.
And so we always teach them to be cautious.
At the time when her breasts begin to grow
She was told to walk a bit slow
And even before the puberty embarked
She was taught to bear with the derogatory remarks
It’s just a part of her life
Ignore, don’t provoke!
You don’t know what events your protest might invoke
It’s right for the criminal to live a guilt-free life
And she,despite her innocence, may contemplate committing suicide
But then of course, women are treated well.
If not equally, then better.
They aren’t destitute, just a little bit confused
About how they have continuously been taught,
that as women, they need to tolerate a lot,
Because that’s what have got us all impressed
In any circumstance, they must always stay suppressed.
And so what if it might have got her a bit hurt,
To stay comparable to filth and dirt!
She, after all, can live with that!
Because even she knows it is indeed a fact –
The important one that keeps our misogyny intact;
The notion of women as equal beings is simply outrageous,
Because women, after all, are just too precious.

***

Author’s little note: This poem has been written as a part of The Bullshit trilogy. which contains other similar articles namely – The Bra strap & The Blood stain.
Posted on by saloni 0

Feminism; The bullshit – II

I

II

It hurts!
Not you
Just a bit of her reputation
She must be practically illiterate
Given the fact that she is so glamorous
The fact that she may be smarter than you are
Is worth some applause
and a lot of thought
Because beauty with brains is such a rare combination
Women are not wired that way usually
Women can be conveniently stupid and conveniently “wise”
And perpetually something to objectify
She is only good at mugging up the facts
Or applying eyeliner
Or being hairless
Or gossiping
And even if she isn’t into any of these,
She is still just meant to be pretty and to please,
Because who would marry her otherwise?
So, let’s be a little more concerned about our size
And a bit cautious about how we mustn’t stay unmarried after twenty-five
Also, let’s invest some money in the parlors and the cosmetics
One, after all, must always give priority to aesthetics
Be careful though, one shouldn’t to be too attractive
Otherwise “Asking for it” will be your new adjective.
It hurts!
Not you, just a bit of her reputation,
If she asks you to help her,
Or to borrow your books or your notes,
Talks with you politely or share some anecdotes,
She is either using you
Or hitting on you
Anyway if you tell her that you love her
And if she says she doesn’t love you back
Then you must think hard
About the reason why she was even interacting with you.
Because that’s obviously not what classmates do!
Or colleagues do!
Or neighbors do!
You loved her.
But she didn’t love you back.
So, now she qualifies for an acid attack.
Might have been too harsh, mate?
But hasn’t she been the worse to you?
Sure it burns!
Her face less
And your ego more
Women, just as dumb and a show piece, are fine.
Women, at any cost, mustn’t opine.
Her smartness and intelligence should mostly be fictitious
And that kind of women are always precious.

**

III

Author’s little note: This poem has been written as a part of The Bullshit trilogy. which contains other similar articles namely – The Bra strap & The Blood stain.
Posted on by saloni 0

Feminism; The bullshit – I

I

It hurts,
Just a bit of her reputation
When you see her socializing, it’s obviously flirtation
When you say she was seen going to the boss’s cabin too often
When she was seen laughing a little more than she should have
Some say they even saw them holding hands
And from the way she smiles, what else can one understand!
He is married,
What kind of woman is she?
He is married,
What kind of man is he?
But this is the question you wouldn’t ask,
Oh yeah! It’s a shame
On his part too
But men are entitled to be assholes!
But women?
No, they must act like women!
They must maintain their dignity.
They are precious, after all.
Haven’t we praised her to the suns and moons!
To the flowers of Spring and first rains of June
All the couplets in the world – all dedicated to her!
The smell of the flowers! The murmuring river!
Even the bouquet of stars isn’t what she deserves,
So obviously, shouldn’t she be preserved?
With a burkha?
With a ghunghat?
Who knows what that beautiful face can do to men!
Men will be men
They can’t stop doing their sinless and shameless acts
SO, it’s women who must sacrifice
Because yes, women are wise!
But only in the kitchen
Not at office
where you don’t give her the raise she deserves
since she is just a part of diversity seat she reserves
And what after she gets married?
And decides to relocate?
What if she gets pregnant?
And decides to take a break?
Giving birth is no joke
But the promotion over maternity leave is.
But this isn’t discrimination!
Just deluded incrimination!
From what I see, it’s completely fair.
That’s how it is everywhere.
So you see, we do treat her all righteous
After all, slightly less capable – women are precious.

*

II

III

Author’s little note: This poem has been written as a part of The Bullshit trilogy. which contains other similar articles namely – The Bra strap & The Blood stain.
Posted on by saloni 1

The Puppets

In this brief moment, when the puppeteer above has paused his show thinking about what his next move should be, the puppets below stand still and shocked at their absolute inability to move on their own. For the first time in their lives, they realize how badly they mistook their actions as their own voluntary movements. So, what has their life been? Nothing but a portrayal of some fictitious story weaved by the hands above? Their life has never been theirs. Their reality has been nothing but a performance. What is the relevance of this kind of life? Should it even be called a life? They examine the strings attached to several parts of their body. They want to look up, curse the man who had been leading their lives instead of them but they can’t, not without his permission. In their motionless state, they could feel their mind sinking deep into the ocean of restlessness. They suddenly become aware of the thrilled audience at the front who sat anticipating for yet another wasted show. What joy can one derive from this? From someone’s misery? Are their lives nothing but a medium of entertainment?

Why did the puppeteer pause? They had been living happily in their ignorance! Now, how would they continue breathing with this horrifying realization when every single hope of any possible meaning to their life has been completely annihilated? Meaning of life? Maybe, maybe to be “puppetted” had been their purpose all along. But what kind of purpose is this which is by default, already attained? But this was their reality. This is their reality. Maybe they should just go along with it. But should they not be angry at their pitiable state? At their irrelevant existence? But what kind of relevance would their “voluntary” actions would bring anyway? They would still be on stage. They would be still performing – maybe with a bit of spontaneity but that doesn’t really make a difference! Maybe, it’s good that now they don’t have to carry the burden of making their lives extraordinary. Maybe, it’s for the best that the responsibility of such magnitude has been taken off their shoulders. Maybe things would be simpler now. But the freedom! Aren’t they going to miss their freedom? How could they be so confused, hopeful, furious, curious, morose and even relieved at the same time?

It’s difficult to get out of the maze of their thoughts now. Too late, they went in too far. “Maybe we should simply accept who we are” one of them speaks quietly. Accept who we are? Accept who we are! But who are we? Plastic! Paint! Waste! That’s what our being has succumbed to! And we should just accept that? “Then maybe we should rebel against our own nature,” the crazy man speaks again. What is wrong with this guy? We can’t move a millimeter without this string telling us to and you suggest us to rebel? Are you out of your mind? “Then what should we do?” the man shouts. Who knows! We cannot do anything! Maybe, you are right. We should accept who we are. But it is difficult. It is unfair. It is heartbreaking. It is anything but acceptable. “Okay…Well let me tell you this in that case. Why should we go on about calling ourselves a waste! If we can’t do anything about our situation, then can’t we be happy about the fact that we are also a piece of art? Aren’t we also a creation?” the crazy man says again. What’s up with this guy being so hopeful! We are doomed, my friend. We are DOOMED! “But we had always been doomed. It’s just that we know that now.” Somebody must make this creature shut up.

And suddenly, the puppets find themselves moving again. The puppeteer has resumed his show. They can’t stop themselves from engaging in this dance. They can’t stop themselves from obeying. What pathetic state is this! Can they slip into the zone of ignorance again? Maybe they can. After all, isn’t imagination supposed to be the most powerful tool? And so it begins as the puppets start imagining every movement as the part of their own life – not their performance. Of course, it’s difficult at first. Good things aren’t supposed to come easy. Their minds both protest and comply. But they imagine again. Again. Again. And again until it transforms into an incessant dream of their ideal lives. The strings break away and they dance, walk, embrace with their own will. It’s beautiful! They have finally attained the freedom to pen down their own stories. Who cares about the delusion? Who cares about the ignorance? There’s too much beauty in their independence to think about those stupid stuff! So, they sing! They swoon! They rejoice! They celebrate until…Until the moment, the hands upstairs pause again.

***

Posted on by saloni 2

The door, among other things

If I were to listen to my witless alter ego residing inside my head, you would find me standing with my ears pressed against this door just as they once had been pressed against your chest listening to your beating heart. I admit there are no octaves in the heartbeats but I had discovered a song anyway. I have long gone forgotten the lyrics. I can’t recall its music composition either. But somehow, I still remember how symphonic it sounded. What weird criterion does the mind follow to retain memories? Anyway, that symphony is nothing but an autistic part of the past now but still I am listening to it standing here – sans words, sans notes. Why should I be thinking about those moments? Why should I even be speculating about eavesdropping through this door? There is nothing good I can hope to hear. You don’t live beyond this wooden thing. And this wooden thing has no possibility of being swung open—paving way for our chance encounter. Yet that doesn’t stop me from enjoying this cold wind beautifully complementing the hot day it has been. I, leaning on the wall with some meaningless thoughts concerning you and a non-existent tattoo on my wrist and imaginary flickering light on the ceiling along with a fictitious cigarette between my fingers that I am shamelessly flicking onto to the stairs. Not that I enjoy smoking. Not that I smoke. Not that I have any intention of getting a tattoo. Not that I desire to listen to your voice. Not that I anticipate your unnecessary presence either. And yet, here I am, staring at this cheap wood polish, the old fashioned door lock and resisting my temptation to ring the doorbell. You won’t open the door anyway. Oh no, you would actually, had you been there. And what kind of encounter would that have been other than an awkward exchange of brief salutations? After all, it’s not easy to put a comprehensible vocality to all of my thoughts that have revolved around you. But there’s a reason for this incompetency of mine – In my imagination, you are perfect! Of course, I am aware that the reality is different and it has all its right to be so. However, don’t I have the liberty to enjoy fiction too? It may be factually incorrect. It may be too dreamy. It may be an absolute wastage of time. But why should I refrain myself from this easy source of amusement? For despite my repeated denials, I do secretly admit that it’s a pleasure to think about you, to think about different versions of you which are not actually yours but MY projections of your heavily edited photographs. It’s entertaining creating numerous scenes of a forgettable play where we both can be the protagonists. The play that has perfect set of dialogues. Whenever we perform it in my head, it’s always a standing ovation. House-full auditorium. Critical acclaim. On stage, you are spot on! On stage, you are amazing! Just look at you saying each and every word with such spontaneity and accuracy! In reality, however, these are just some banal sets of conversations penned down by me in the air. Unfortunately, our literacy is just limited to pens and papers. How can one understand the stories flung open in the air? How does one read the unwritten? How does one hear the unsaid? Your incapability makes sense. My unreal expectation doesn’t. You are not the character of my story. You aren’t really the actor of my play. You are just a bad casting, you are just a misunderstood being. But then again, it’s a pleasure standing here. The fact that you won’t come out that door is a relief and your absence is ironically beautiful. And though you might find me shuffling through your memories and contemplating about various possibilities that could have occurred on the other side of this door, paradoxically this very act bars me from entering the past again, from crossing the line, from eventually being an unwanted guest, from taking the misleading detour on the way to my home and from forgetting that our broken connection is beyond repair. This door is not a reminder of you. This door is not a reminder of any closeness. This door is a reminder of the closure. Our closure.

***

Posted on by saloni 0

The Blood Stain

The bloodstain on my bed-sheet— Let me conceal it with the pillow or the blanket or my bag or anything before it catches your attention, before you look at it and look away in an unintentional acknowledgement OR in your rare stupidity or blissful ignorance or surreal broad-mindedness ask me about it. I don’t want to but I am going to lie and tell you that maybe I slapped an obese mosquito in sleep or maybe I spilled over paint or tea or something. Why am I lying though? Is it so hard to admit that this could be something those absorbents failed to absorb? Is it so hard to accept the curse (or one of the curses) of womanhood? But isn’t it what I am supposed to carry around with pride? How come it has succumbed to being one shameful act on which I don’t even have any conscious control? Forget about tampons or pads, why is this issue something that you can’t absorb? Forget about you, why is it something I can’t absorb in my head? Why can’t I accept that it indeed is okay and has always been. That it is okay if I step into the temple. That it is okay that I take leave over menstrual cramps. That it is okay to be how we are. That it is okay to talk about it and it is okay if I refuse to hide the fact that I might be menstruating.

The bloodstain on my bed-sheet— It takes an interesting shape if lately, you have spotted me smiling too much on my own and if you have snapped me out of my daydreams quite frequently. It doesn’t require you to be a rocket scientist to deduce what might be going on here. So maybe you can infer that I might have had an interesting night recently. The blood stain on my bed-sheet; a gentle reminder of how my hymen broke, how I lost my purity, how I broke the unsaid rules. Or maybe it can also remind you of the fact that how a woman’s vagina is not simply a socket to plug into. Maybe it can remind you of her reluctance or her pain. But of course, you are not supposed to mind or even pay attention to my disrespectful and shameless language here. And if possible, I request you to please overrule my objection as many times as you wish.

The bloodstain on my bed-sheet— A very simple tool for the comfortable passage for your judgement. A silently unnecessary reason for my panic. I must give this cloth for laundry or else I will be sentenced to lifetime embarrassment. I am still serving for the time when I miscalculated the onset of my periods, when I was told through actions and suppressed words the state of my destroyed uterine wall and how the evidence of destruction laid projected on my white skirt. How disgusting is this blood that is meant to harbor a life! How disgusting is this blood that is meant to guard my health! How disgusting is this blood that gives me capability to bear a child! How disgusting and impure is this blood indeed! The bloodstain on my bed-sheet; let’s cover it up immediately before anyone sees.

***

Author’s little note: This article has been written in continuation to another article named The Bra Strap as a part of The Bullshit trilogy.
Posted on by saloni 0

That Bastard hope!

Hope isn’t a friend, my friend;
Even the popular norms can be misleading.
Hope isn’t the guy you can trust;
Sometimes, even strangers are less deluding.
Sure hope can gift you blissful dreams;
Dreams which are capable of making your hearts flutter with joy,
Shooing away all the things that might have got you annoyed
He would take you to a faraway destination –
On which you would do all kinds of investigation
For, of course, you will make that journey one day,
That one day won’t be tomorrow,
That one day won’t even be the day after tomorrow,
That one day!
That one day will be someday,
An abstract thing,
A floating entity not willing to be quantified as a date
And to be brought down into the ugliness of calendars at any rate!
But we don’t have to know this, yes.
Though even with this ignorance, don’t you dare transform that day into today
Hope won’t take it.
This very act jeopardizes the purpose of his existence,
So, he will put up with all forms of resistance,
Gaining the shape of its alter ego
Suddenly, he will transform into his apprehensive self—
What if? What if? What if?

Hope will always project an ideal parallel future,
ready to be touched but never intending to intersect;
When the limit tends to zero there would always be something to interject,
So, let your dreams thrive in the islands far far away,
Either they be tomorrows of tomorrows,
Or simply yesterdays,
Hope is a kind bastard,
who doesn’t mean you any harm, of course.
A guy a bit too concerned
who wants to protect you from remorse.
But don’t let him take control
After all what matters the most is his greatest fear—
Today.
Oh hope! It will be okay!
Frankly, I am pretty scared of your hazardous affection
Hope, you can’t always keep looking for acceptance
When you know what necessary part of life are rejections,
So, don’t leave me here in the midway-
when you have got me half dreamy but dangerously short of motivation
Be the chain reaction to my actions;
I don’t want your presence through scattered fractions,
Be honest hope! Be persistent!
If I give up, be insistent!
If I try, be an assistant!
If I fuck up, be resistant!
If I am bogged down lift me up,
Hold my hand through each hiccup,
Be real,
Not surreal,
I don’t need you as evasion,
Or some repeated persuasion,
Don’t function as a pill meant to abate,
I just need you as a mate!
But these aren’t in his basic nature,
For hope is a funny creature!
Known for his abrupt endings,
‘Hopeless’ is his second nomenclature
And so, you can only hope that he stays till the end.
Because yes, hope isn’t always a friend, my friend.

***

Posted on by saloni 0