Wicked Woman

If you come to my city
You are bound to find
my name in the roster
of wicked women
I have all that it takes
to be as wicked
as they come
I have a goblet
brimming over
in my hand
My laughter is known
for its abandon
Flames find a home
in my mouth
My heart beats and
every nerve does
a little dance
The road is at my feet
And just the sky above
I have the courage to bear
and express myself
without fear

Laughing Sorrow

I will not let sorrow sit still
today in my home
Pushing it into my jhola
I will take it along
to the city streets
Today I will steal a bright red
gulmohar bloom and put it
in my hair
Borrowing smiles from the
Coffee House waiter
I will share a little joke
with the library caretaker

When all these tricks
to cheer a sorrowing day fail
I will sit on the slope
outside the girls’ hostel
and light my cigarette
the ashes will mix for sure
in my poem today
readers will get a chance
to say I am all wrong
“Such are the constraints of
poetesses of Amrita Pritam’s age
A cigarette is their only solace!”

Thinking of my constraints
I will be ever so pained
blaming it all on my wretched
two affairs and a half
I will go to the poet of the city
looking for life sans restraint
He will have half a bottle of rum
in one pocket and a freshly
written poem in the other
He will teach me a mantra
or two of life and reading
his new poem promise to
leave drinking for all times
I too will make a list of
good resolutions and seeking
time for just one more love
I will turn myself into words

The drifting sorrowful day will stop
look back at us and laugh
I will become a part of the magic
of making a sad day snigger
Scattering lines of sorrowing laughter
I will return home…
 

Suicide

She will not think of suicide
It is difficult to devise
ways of dying
and survive the poison
with the guilt of knowing
that the money saved
for the wedding feast
was spent on
extracting the poison
Instead, she will take
out the seven saris
saved over long years
in her mother’s box
and the locket with
nani’s picture that
somehow escaped the
eyes of her drunk father,
put the bundle of her
past in the box
and go to another home
She could well be killed
there for bringing less dowry
The newspaper next day will
carry a small story of yet
another young woman dying
in a stove-burst
 

Newspaper

The morning cup of tea
must be spiced up
with a juicy bit or two
But nothing seems
to happen
the obituary is ready
but the old ailing leader
has survived again
with dialysis
The police station reports
no murder, no suicide
No shanties have been
burnt down anywhere
No dalit girl
has been raped
The day is passing
and there has been
no strike, no price hike
The newspaper is sad today…