How to shave your armpits (Reply to Neetu Das's "How to cut a fish")

Lean to the mirror
Razor in Hand
Remember the youtube videos
And grieve at your incapacity
Soap the area
Until your heart stops
At losing precious hair to patriarchy
Stare long at the blade
In a slow strong motion
Bring it down
Then a second, and third
Rinse, look for remaining matter
Shatter it all.

Sip coffee later
While feeling the emptiness
In both the armpits
And the space between them.

Doiboki's version (Reply to Doiboki by Neetu Das)

Ladies laugh at me
Children gasp
They are schooled to see otherwise

Men pulled out cameras
I looked away
A photographer followed me
My hair, my betel-splitted lips
May sagging breasts
Made good money, he said

He zoomed on my wrinkles
He made my pallu fall
When he asked me to look down,
I cursed him till his mouth dried

I called him a dog
Lifted my pallu
Held my head up
And walked away
To a world of dogs.

How to not fall in love with a ‘Rahul’: A 3 Step Guide

Oh my god, girls, have you seen Rahul?

He’s got bluish grey eyes.

Yes. Bluish grey.

He’ll really look at you and nod

as you explain away your

dissertation topic.

Step 1- Do not get fooled by those eyes.

Wait, give or take 10 seconds,

he’ll cut you off mid-sentence with his

“Umm, well, actually…”

Mansplaining is his forte,

you’ll realize as you fall prey to

his talents.

Girls, have you met Rahul?

He’s got that Royal Enfield Bullet

that makes all the right noises.

He’ll force to drop you at

places you can reach easily.

Every time.

Awwle, how cute no?

Step 2- Sense the misogyny in his tone

when he says, “Babe, you know how

unsafe it is for girls to travel alone.”

While you’re at it, also wonder

why you started dating him in the first place.

Uff, Rahul is so hot yar.

He’s got those biceps and six abs.

He'll flex those muscles and

make promises like

“Babe, you know

I will always protect you.”

How romantic is that, right?

Step 3- Snap back to reality and

let the sexist overtone sink in.

Run as far as possible, because

the only protection you need is from

a Rahul.

Response to Nitoo Das's poem TV Remote

T.V Remote

You smack me
You thrash me
You slap me
And, push my buttons
Crack open my back
Tape, retape, only
to crack it open
I'm the one you use
for your punchbag aggression
I'm your goth clad in black
Ornamented with choleric alphabets
Ensnared in power
I juggle between sweaty and dusty hands
I endured catastrophic farts.
Only to be ensnared again.

Response to Nitoo Das's 'Handbag'

A thing you carry around for years
Is no less than a memoir.
It holds within itself many memories
To sing an old song they stand in formation of a choir.
Tonight she is set to clear it up.
Revisit a few old days and towns
Stumbling upon many many old coins
With time which have perished in browns.
Many mint wrappers escape the darkness of this handbag,
 seeing the light of the outer world after a decade
Also many bus tickets that once took her to places
on which the details  have now fade.
Many other things escape the dark town of the handbag.
Slowly, one by one.
This battle of her and the things in her handbag
 was one she believed she could've never won.
The flower, the note, the pen and kohl.
They all seemed futile until when.
Her hand reached out for the bright fire red lipstick Well, this is a new fetish then.
Maybe it is fruitful to visit the old forgotten towns sometimes.
Not just to reminisce or whine
But also to rediscover and recover
 some old heroes of the ancient times.

Sakura Talks Back

This poem is a critique of Masashi Kishimoto's famous manga Naruto where he showed Sakura, the deuteragonist, as a weak and feeble character though the character got it's due in the later part of the series. Even though she was shown as a strong woman in later representations it doesn't give any fan or any person to misrepresent women as weak, feeble or painting them with stereotypes. So here's a critique of all that male chauvinism that went in the creation of the famous Naruto. This is also a response to Nitoo Das's poem on Geeta Dutt.



Like the cherry pink blossoms

You thought I was fragile

So that you could bend me

Twist me, crush me, destroy me

Kishimoto, I’m not the fragile one.

I’m more than my name

I destroy, kill, make and carve

I’m the destroyer and the creator

I store life within me, I heal

Kishimoto, I’m not a useless woman

When villages were torn by violence

When wars disrupted lives of the people

When darkness prevailed and hope faded

I poured light with my life

Kishimoto, I’m Tsunade’s shadow

I’m not a gentle breeze

I’m not a timid flower

I’m not a spring blossom

I’m not a pure woman

Kishimoto, I’m a tornado

When your main man was falling

When “strong men” were dying

When children were maimed

When citizens were being killed

Kishimoto, I protected them

You painted me dumb

You painted my lesser than

Your useless main man

Your vile, twisted misconceptions

Kishimoto, is like a castle of glass

You underestimated my strength

You mocked my inabilities

Painted me with deception

Glossed me with stereotypes

Kishimoto, I’ll fight back

I'm not the white flower

I'm not the gentle Sakura

I'm not a humble tree

A boisterous cactus I've always been

Kishimoto, I'll prick you 

But one thing’s for sure

I’ll listen no more

To the slurs and abuses

I’ll make myself known

Kishimoto, your glass castle is done for

And so it rained

Thunderbolts photographed my birth
and I descended like an answered prayer
made your dust smell
like heaven


but soon it became messy
like a kid's diaper
the pitter-patter and splashes
became like the conversation starters
of guests who had outstayed their welcome


Puddles peeped out like innocent eyes
of street urchins
inviting you out to play.
Now, two kids can provide
leisure social work
but too much is a gang.
Best stay        away

You ask for rain
but forget to specify how much.
Clouds are not omniscient vendors
and each drop is a ray.

The little streams,
frivolous babysitters
who won't let me seep through
but whirl me around
then drop me down
sewers.

Response to Nitoo Das's 'March Wind'

The whiff of the wind reminded her of something
From the beginning this one thing was clear.
For her March was a month unlike the others.
Maybe a month of love, of pain or of fear.
It was the March wind that brought back her memories.
Sweet as honey, bitter as hemlock
The wind hit her and reminded her of everything.
Leaving her mind in a block.
For others it might be the wind of comfort.
Of fruit and flower bearing season.
But to her it bought a whirl of emotions
Twirling in her mind, driving her out of reason.
The questions of her past that once haunted her.
The ones that seemed unsolvable.
They could all be answered now, that too well within reason
Maybe that's what made this march wind so impossible.

I can't feel exactly what she does.
But now march wind seems different to me too
Now different emotions run fast through my bloodstream
As past me caressingly it blew.

Fan and a Light Switch: A Hate Story of Love

I have blades, she says.

No, not those that cut.

Don’t ask her,

she’ll tell you otherwise.

She tells me when to go

and when to shut.

One might call her controlling.

I don’t.

At least not in front of her.

She conveniently gets cozy

with the switchboard,

how dare she suspect that Ceiling and I

have a thing.

I very well know the song of jealousy

but I prefer not to sing.

I always think that I’ve had enough

I won’ take it anymore now

but whenever she goes up,

I spin around.

Love is a silly thing.

I don’t know how to tell you

and where to start.

It’s like with every patch up

I tell her

“Till short circuit do us part”

how to butcher a cockerel - Response to 'how to cut a fish'

find a corner of the backyard
where the mosquitoes  are
less             bloodthirsty
squat comfortably
you don't want to get a cramp
as soon as the water is about to
boil reduce flame    lift the trussed
cock by the legs
tilt his head back and cut quickly
the pale saggy flesh snapping bone
let him bleed out on a newspaper
        it's easier to clean
baptize him
dipping once twice thrice so the feathers come out
smooth and quick
chop the talons dragon yellow
slice his breast where the thin ribs        reach in
and remove the entrails keep the liver and the crop
cut the neck the waist    
chop on a wood block the legs
wings body into small pieces
so you can no longer tell what was what
throw the blood feathers feet and guts away
with the now cold water 

A Speck of Black - Response poem to Nitoo Das' How to Photograph an Oriental White-eye

The blue is bright
and piercing
I blink and it infects me
I lift my body, throwing off
the heaviness of the morning,

slicing the midday thermals
and climb the blue
now dropping, now rising.

The sunlight ripples
over my body
caresses my downy neck
my throat trills with power
As  I climb higher
still higher
while my shadow falls lower
with each wheeling turn—
he will find me
when I let myself fall.

Then I see it, a small
grey body sleek and sly
feral like me
but it's careless today
and it will be its last
I fold the air with my wings
silent like falling dust
a moment of surprise
then it's limp,
warm and solid.
I trill its death song
to the blue
impassive and serene.  

Directions

Inch closer with static in

tandem with the supple paleness.

Elicit hunger with tongue tied irises.

Keep hands at the ready. See

rose blush on her crimson

cheeks.

Remember to listen. You must

wait for her to curve

into the perfect fit. Slowly

interlace the tepid skin, spread

Or spill. Learn the ridges of the spine

that holds her breath. Linger

at her coyness, seek earnestly.

Taste citric on her neck

mint and pulse. There is no tryst here.

Do not mark her unless desire

is borne out of need. When she submits

to your care with a weeping past

you exhale. Let her be.

Your fingertips should map out the indents

on her skin-folds. Find sugar on her tongue.

She has known you for years. Now

you must come home to her.

How to bake a cake

Assemble the ingredients first,

You may never know when time will ditch you,

One extra minute and there you are left with a tasteless cake.

2 cups Maida and 2 teaspoons of baking powder,

Mix them till the time they fall in love, this is the first step

Secondly break 3 eggs and stir them so hard that they may appear like water to you.

There! The coco powder and the chocolate syrup is waiting for you to add them too,

Mix all the three steps with milk one by one in a big bowl,

Big enough to handle all the taste you want,

Get rid of those lumps; stir it till you get a proper paste.

Finally it’s ready to get baked.

Put the mixture in a dry cake cup,

But first apply oil and Maida inside the cup so that your cake won’t stick to the cup.

There you go putting the cup in oven with 100 degrees Celsius is the final step.

Keep a check on your cake so that it may not get burnt.

Slowly when you see the cake is baked properly,

Forget not to check with a needle by putting it in the cake,

 So that we may know the cake has been baked properly or not.

Response to nitoo das poem- The poetry of Everday life

Wallet

Ouch.. It hurts when you sit on me,

But without me you are nothing.

I have everything what you need daily,

I engage with all your ATM’s, i-cards and important papers.

When I am with you, you have an identity,

Otherwise you would be thrown out of the territory.

Preasure cooker

They say I am boast,

But I am the one who fulfils your wishes.

I am not silent, I am not sober,

I am loud and I am fat,

But I care for you the most.

Writing pad

Stick me where you want,

I won’t utter a word.

I am your reminder; I am your booster,

I am cheap and I am handy.

I am available at all the stationeries,

Pick me up, i am red i am yellow I am white I am in all colours.

Glossary

Mukhatib(1) hone ki nahi hai chah
zara (2) door hi reh, na paas aa
teri nazar bhar(3) hi hai kaafi
bhatkaane ko mujhko meri(4) raah

1. I don't want to feel your breath
congealing at the back of my throat,
back off

a
2. little
things sometimes
actually mean 'a lot',
like this word

is
3. full
but not overflowing
like the screams
of your past lovers

could have been
4. mine
like this poem
is art for you
but not the truth.

How to think about Death

By the ocean, violet hour
sky swallows the sun
leaves a trembling darkness
a patient anxiety-
stand, soak in

Watch the horizon submit
callously, in love
with a moody mirage

unashamed, the division dissolves
consummating, a lilac sky
a dipping shoreline and
the rhapsodic waves
lapping at your feet-
marvel, behold

Bequeath harrowing sorrows
slip them inside graves
vanishing footprints on sand
immersed or suspended
this bent life-
dangling by the crook
aching for a release
Rest, let go

Step into the water, walk

on liquid tightropes, bewitched

by a serenading sunset blue

a sensory assault, forgiving

all the sickness growing

out of your bones, heavy

stones or organs(i do not know)

half of you is now the sea

of salt, marine and gold

Then admire
the taunting hour

an agile ensemble, quacking

land and sky into a blended dark

accomplice to my death wish

of romantic sublime endings

is this sight, by the ocean

on a balmy January night

and all I feel is

the hands of grace, blessing

every crack on my human

heart is secured

I am alive

I am here

I Will Sit Here (Extension of Nitto Das’ Naani to Ramher’s Bapu)

I will not

go in—how dare you die

in that room—I will sit here and

wait. For you

to come to me. Here—

on this Peepal Tree

where, women light

ghee diyas and gulmohar

incense sticks.

How dare you die

in that room.

I will be angry

for two-three days,

like I used to when

we were alive.

Come—with a gajra

and I will forgive you.

Until then,

I will sit here and

wait.

How dare you die

in that room.

Where we first saw each other.

You lifted my veil and

brushed your lips

onto mine.

Stroked your cheeks

against mine.

How dare you?

How dare you!

Die… why didn’t you

die in the room

where I died.

How dare you leave me

alone. Yet.

I will wait here

for you,

on this Peepal Tree—

where women light

ghee diyas and burn gulmohar

incense sticks.

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.

By (A Response to Nitoo Das' See)

See, this is when my first

pair of jhumkas were bought.

That’s where they were being kept.

By a book, by a cotton ball,

by another jhumka.

See, this is where I first

wore them and showed you.

By an unknown tree, by a tomb,

by you beside. Silver cups

under my hair.

See, I wear them, waiting—alone.

See? The angst in my eyes,

wanting you to touch them, touch

me. By soft fingertips, the

surface of your skin.

See the moon, which was ours,

now cries beside me. By your absence,

your presence. By our dubious existence.

See this is where I’ll bury my jhumkas,

tombstone telling lies about you.