U B FAIR

Squatting on the commode,

I look at an advertisement

that dangles on the backdoor of the toilet.

It proclaims - ‘India’s first skin lightening cream, FOR MEN’

‘The world isn’t fair, so U B FAIR’

U B  FAIR - is the latest

alchemic agent of self-transformation

in the inherited legacy of discrimination

passed down generations -- in myths, fables,

poetry, idols, songs and sermons.

‘The world isn’t fair, so U B FAIR.’

My (s)kin, the Dravidians, they are called.

On attaining puberty, they gift girls aspiration

packaged in tubes of white, pink, and

all shades of pastel.

Made for 45 crore women -- brown, black and

all shades of darkness.

Conditioned to feel incomplete

unless they turn translucent.

‘The world isn’t fair, so U B FAIR.’

She rubs her chin, upset at the stubble

stubbornly interpreted as masculine.

She rubs her crotch, tugging at her itchy balls.

She wishes for three holes where her legs meet.

Her skin, a sponge, soaks up

insults, slurs, snickers and glares.

The outlines of her anatomy,

categorize and repulse her into a binary.

But her skin, also a shell, cracks, peels and

crumbles under the weight of conformity.

‘The world isn’t fair, so U B FAIR.’

Meanwhile, he who is deemed ‘lower’

by virtue of his birth,

rummages through your dirt,

Numbing his skin and sensation with

The only fairness he knows;

A handkerchief soaked in whitener liquid.

‘The world isn’t fair, so U B FAIR.’

Condoms - Poetry of Everyday Life

Disentangle your limbs,
probe around for me
in the darkness. Tear me up
with the edge of your teeth.
Grab me by the tip,
pinch me softly.
Pull me over,
as I take your shape. 

How to Pick A Fight with Your Lover - Response to Nitoo Das's Poetry

Raise your haunches,
bare your fangs,
spread out your claws,
swallow your hopes,
trawl through the litter of
promises as hollow as a conch.

Erect a sceptical eyebrow,
curl your lips into a snarl,
dismiss disagreements with
the wave of a hand.

Spit out disappointments,
Spin up accusations,
Abandon the oars,
Tear up the sail,
Let the -'ship'
sink into the sand.

Jai Hind

Don’t forget to violently attack young lovers, Jai Hind,

For exchanging harmless flirtations, Jai Hind.

Don’t forget to remember the jawans, Jai Hind,

From the comfort of your settee facing the television, Jai Hind.

Don’t forget to help the poor and needy, Jai Hind.

But force them to undergo sterilization, Jai Hind

Don’t forget to domesticate our forests to attract tourists, Jai Hind.  

Fence it down and mine its core for capital accumulation, Jai Hind.

When the Naxals retaliate, kill them in hordes, Jai Hind

How dare they fight against your nation, Jai Hind.

Don’t forget to crush their dreams of liberation, Jai Hind.

Steal their land and drive them to starvation, Jai Hind.

Stand up for the national anthem or be cursed to damnation, Jai Hind.

And when the dust has settled, attend liberty’s cremation. Jai Hind!

What the ‘Morally Loose’ Woman told Self-Appointed Custodians of Indian Culture

Vigilantes,

Renegades,

The Heroes our city never asked for

I don’t think of all you as

Saffron-robed, lathi-brandishing, right-wing bhakts

I’ve seen you in school buses,

Segregating girls and boys,

Lest they began to feel comfortable in each other’s company

I’ve seen you standing beside coffee shops,

Threatening its owners to install CCTV cameras,

Lest young lovers forget they live in a surveillance state.

I’ve seen you in the back rows of seedy single-screen theatres,

Perking up your ears to catch the sound of smooching

And swooping down on consenting lovers

Lest the ‘vulnerable woman’ gets trafficked into ‘flesh trade.’

I’ve seen you on the censor board and the

Ministry of Propaganda and Hogwash

Butchering films for being ‘woman-centric’,

Banning public service announcements for

‘Sexually objectifying’ women, and being ‘immoral’

Lest such films show the country its own shame.

I’ve seen you swivelling in high-back chairs

Reserved for megalomaniacs of educational institutions

Killing careers of artists for painting

your hallowed Gods and Goddesses in an ‘Obscene manner’

Lest we ever shed the baggage of Victorian morality, and

Act nonchalant around nudity.

Leaving a Lover

You treat him like a mother would a child. Press him close to your chest, clutch his hair and brush your lips across his cheeks.
He is especially silent tonight?

You push his blonde fringe out of the way & lick his lips. He bites you back, half-heartedly. His kisses are lazy. They are no longer curious; tongues press but don’t probe.
He holds your hair back but doesn’t tangle his fingers in them or push a curl aside to bite your neck.
His sleep is heavy; he is especially silent tonight?

His silence interrupted only by snorting.
His body has been still for the past 2 hours the only movement — his small chest heaving.
The back of your head hurts, the nape of your neck is stiff, your nose is stuffed and hair is greasy.
You pick up a pen because She listens.
The silence spins louder than the ceiling fan.
He leaves you feeling empty like a bad habit.
He is especially silent tonight?

Morning comes around, a pink faced child runs up to us —
“Hi Aunty! Hi Uncle!”
“Hi Cuteness!”
“She just called you Aunty”

He skips down the stairs, happy to hear the morning birds.
You skip, miss a step and tumble down to a silence.
A silence that lasts the auto-ride-of-shame.
You feel like a wife; the disagreeable half in a relationship that leaves a lot unsaid.
You catch his eye as he looks at himself in the rearview mirror.
You give him a small embarrassed smile.
He smiles back, you look away.
He is especially silent.

Look Up

I wish I could go back to

A time without smartphones

when (the lack of) notifications —

 instant, intrusive, attention-seeking —

wouldn’t make me feel blue.

Perhaps I would find skills to hone or

learn how to play the trombone.

Perhaps I would make a silly schedule and set aside

time for counting stars.

I would heal oft-ignored scars

with indulgent bubble baths

and when the wastage of water

induces my mother’s wrath,

I’d pour her a vodka-tonic from

my father’s mini-bar.

Perhaps I’d plan an impromptu trip

to a village next door,

and escape secretly without

status updates or a social media furore.

Perhaps I’d climb a hillock,

peppered with attention depleters —

Blue Ticks, Read Receipts and Last Seens —

I’d line them up and make them walk the plank.

Armed with my new found attention span

I’d make my way to the nearest river bank,

where I’d fashion Gods and Monsters out of shape-shifting clouds

and be unconcerned with the whereabouts of my man.

x

Place: Winter in Kolkata

The skyline is punctuated with –
The red sun sunk under
 the grey glare of the city’s
thick cloud (& smog)
appears to me like the sindoor
on a Bengali woman’s forehead

The skeletons of instant infrastructure;
rapidly rising box-homes,
reminding me of the city ’s enduring inhabitability.

The streets are being built in bits –
Sweeping its history to the fringes
Like the once-used chai cups
which resist rotting in drains --
melting into grime and urine.

The conversations (arguments) are loud
like the thundering of the 65,000 footsteps
that lead to tunnels of the grinding metro rail,
 The stares are lewd like the men who ride them;
 Their eyes cling to my skin like dust.
The city loves its muck
 I carry the soot in my hair.

Lovesick/ Sick of Love

There are no winners in love,

No losers either,

Just cliches catching you off-guard

At every street corner.

Love is a battlefield, of two (or more) humans

Resisting the slow invasion

Of their lover’s projected fantasies.

I tell myself that love can be broad, love can be narrow,
love can be easy, love can be a chore, love can you give you a purpose,
love can make you faithless, love can lift you up,
love can make your world go around and then topple off its axis,
but love won’t do the dishes.

I have myself believe that love is fashionable,
love is a commodity marking nearly all pop culture products,
love conquers all, love makes you devoted to a fallible god,
but love won’t pay the taxes.

I convince myself that love is clever, love is slow,
love is all that won’t superficially show,
love is a noose, love is a leash,
love is a jilted muse, love is a plea,
love is the sound of two hands clapping, love is an echo in the void,
but love won’t keep your safe from yourself.

I delude myself into thinking love is fair,
love is emancipated from the past,
love is rebellious, stability in love is conformity,
love is an itch you can’t scratch,
love is a scab that is peeled before it heals,
love is a flower whose scent makes you giddy,
but love alone won’t keep lovers together.