The survivor

The Sun did rise here

Two hundred years ago.

A nine year old girl.

Dragged,

thrown into the burning funeral

of her husband.

The girl. Burning.

Drums beating in the background.

They do gobble the deafening sound

of the girl

​​​​​​​hurled.

Close your eyes.

Visualize.

Open
Almost burnt,
she strives her way out.

Runs.

Gets caught and thrown again.

Beaten to death.

Thousands of them.

In time. In pain.

The Woman objects.

They have all come back.

Now.

As rebels.

They have fire in their bellies.

Their wombs energized

with the Sun's glow..

They survived widow brothels

Womb slaughters.

Child marriage.

Dowry killings.

Many unwritten hell.

The Woman objects.

They have all come back.

Now.

As rebels.

They have fire in their bellies.

Their wombs energized

with buried sadness.

This time around,

your judgements,

blind or wise,

your Goddesses

dressed or otherwise,

will not be of much help,

even if you wept at their feet

for the next two hundred years

cleaning the dirt you have caused

trying to melt their frozen tears.

They had succumbed to you.

They have survived you too.

The Sun will rise here.

Two hundred years later.

Kohinoor is the name of a …

Kohinoor is the name of a …

There goes the concern
fake again, as it were
amanat…
there goes the judgement
ghar ki daulat
a refresher on how to kill
the disobedient
in public
what should they wear
when will they come home
there is fear
scattered everywhere
India is not Rome.

But who violated a three-month old
someone stronger and bold?
who, a nonagenarian nani
someone a tad childish and funny?

Boys will be boys
girls are at fault
soft tender toys
raped, severed, a lusty lesson taught
they are our treasure
should be kept in a vault
else boys will have pleasure
for their beauty, they’re under pressure.
Girls are like Kohinoor,
precious and cherished
at home, should be confined, like jahan ki noor
nurtured and nourished.

Rapes, honor killings, molestations!
Girls are the reasons
they are to be blamed.
and the western influence!
So beautiful, they travel unprotected, uncovered
it's natural for our boys
to violate them,
to have their limbs severed.

2017 is coming to an end,
so what, even thousand years later
with plastic concern and care
power, pelf and pride
men will still discuss
some women in their side
girls shouldn’t offend
they should not fuss,
roam here and there
list of things they should do
what they should not wear.

The sky observes
brooks flow
sun shines
moon smiles
earth shelters
all of them witness
how girls in gloom glow
how they are in a mess.

They all laugh and sing
in chorus, O how horrible it is
girls are treated as jewels
and not as human beings!

ink

ink

ink was real

close

it painted the page

a quiet sound;

could touch, smell, see

red, different from

green, black and blue

writing still continues

with more shapes and colors

ink shelved

useless hues

frozen

in time

sometimes sneaks in

through

the ears

and

the nose.

​​​​​​​

I become a wet cloth

squeezed and hung

in the line

to dry.

pen

pen

pen is my hometown

a zone

abandoned for growth

for good

pen

pen is my hometown

the ink in it

an ocean 

sails me to distant lands

I reach out

to the world

pen is my exile

the ink in it

a constant flow

of love

of understanding
in deep solitude

pen is my life line

the ink in it

raindrops

washing away tears

dewdrops

kissing the beginning

bloods

floating inside

all the time

making life, life

pen is my kingdom

fertile
with endless supply
of bubbling hues

to reach out to the world

​

Disease

She was apologetic for him

to her relatives,

to people in her neighborhood.

He was brought up with three sisters

and me, she’d say

his father died when he was born

that’s why he’s like this…

please forgive him, please forgive him;

this was her story and his.

Even when he was nineteen

she’d cover him as a scar

sometimes as a criminal;

but he’d think often

of his friend, raised in no gender imbalance

absolutely, perfectly groomed

no mistake in his sideburns, moustache,

hair, body, not even in his glance

but one could sense a buried gloom

he was also a shame

an inadvertent mistake.

Why’d he grown up being reasoned

by her, to raising eyebrows, jaw-dropping smirks

‘cure him, cure him’ choruses

from concerned on-lookers

until the time she died?

Perhaps repenting carrying him

in her womb

uff, died and delivered.

Now he is on his own

being unnatural, abnormal

all his part;

perhaps it is not his fault

he would have liked to be cured

but, in the absence of pills

how could he? Does he have diabetes

is this really a disease,

or could those watching eyes be ill at ease!

He doesn't know...

doctors himself from the outside

without shame or guilt he shares his inside

story with a friend, in a wild hide.

There is a side in him which wants to die,

while the other, asks why.

Song of the words

Song of the words

Words died a steady death.
Defeated, destroyed
like crying waves on the sea-shore
wings of the eaglets that failed to fly
skin of the snakes useless, dry
mask of the mime covering the core.

I took care to shed them.
Attractive, deadly
alive as ulcer, tumors
I was holding them
using, chanting
but they were blooming
only on the page
through my pen
sounding in the air
throwing up,
from my teeth and my tongue
accolades and praises,
their shine and glare
cemented the walls of my prison
with no feelings
hidden in the words
with concern and care,
I was blinded, without vision
the real song, still unsung.

Then I sensed the pull.
From my head
in several strokes
with a never-heard melody
I was sailing off
deep sea, to its bed
from myself
ounce by ounce
waters broke
with nothing to cling on
nothing to renounce.

I came back.
The words ran into me
like long lost friends
I could recognize them
their songs, their tunes
meaningful
with what I feel
for what I fell
that wasn’t love
for sure
just pronouncing hell
hell, hell and more of hell.

Now I have nothing.
But I have them all
the jewels out of the shells.

Chanson des mots

Les mots sont morts, une mort assurée

Défaits, détruits

Comme des vagues pleurant sur  le rivage

Les ailes des aiglons qui n'ont pas réussi à voler

Peau des serpents inutile, sèche

Masque du mime couvrant le cœur.

J' en ai pris soin afin de les perdre.

Attrayants, funestes

vivants comme ulcère, tumeurs

je les tenais

pour les utiliser, chanter

mais ils fleurissaient

seulement sur la page

à  travers mon stylo

sonnant dans l'air

en vomissant,

de mes dents et de ma langue

accolades et louanges

leur éclat et leur miroitement

cimentaient les murs de ma prison

sans sentiments

cachés dans les mots

avec inquiétude et soin,

j'étais aveuglé, sans vision

la vraie chanson, encore méconnue.

Ensuite, j'ai senti  la force.

Venant de  ma tête

en plusieurs traits

avec une mélodie jamais entendue

je naviguais

mer profonde, à son  lit

de moi-même

once par once

les eaux se brisèrent

avec rien pour s'accrocher

rien  à  quoi renoncer.

Je suis revenu.

Les mots tombèrent sur moi

comme des amis perdus depuis longtemps

je pouvais les reconnaître

leurs chansons, leurs airs

révélateurs

avec ce que je ressens

pour lesquels je suis tombé

ce n'était pas l'amour

c’est sûr

c’est  seulement prononcer l'enfer

l'enfer, l'enfer et plus d'enfer.

Désormais, je n'ai rien.

mais je les ai tous

les bijoux  hors des coquilles

French translation by the author Supratik Sen; edited by Denis Emorine.
Abouthis blog, read here.

About Denis Emorine

Song of the words

Words died a steady death.
Defeated, destroyed
like crying waves on the sea-shore
wings of the eaglets that failed to fly
skin of the snakes useless, dry
mask of the mime covering the core.

I took care to shed them.
Attractive, deadly
alive as ulcer, tumors
I was holding them
using, chanting
but they were blooming
only on the page
through my pen
sounding in the air
throwing up,
from my teeth and my tongue
accolades and praises,
their shine and glare
cemented the walls of my prison
with no feelings
hidden in the words
with concern and care,
I was blinded, without vision
the real song, still unsung.

Then I sensed the pull.
From my head
in several strokes
with a never-heard melody
I was sailing off
deep sea, to its bed
from myself
ounce by ounce
waters broke
with nothing to cling on
nothing to renounce.

I came back.
The words ran into me
like long lost friends
I could recognize them
their songs, their tunes
meaningful
with what I feel
for what I fell
that wasn’t love
for sure
just pronouncing hell
hell, hell and more of hell.

Now I have nothing.
But I have them all
the jewels out of the shells.