An evocative, woman-centric protest poem, by Dr Pratima, exclusively for Different Truths

You are born of blood,
my blood – the small red droplets of creation,
which weave into a blob of life
and produce in a gush of red sea,
humans like you.                                                                                                        
                                                                                                                 
The droplets dance their lasya of fertility,
chant spells, conjure invigorating magic,
whisper mantras, mutter incantations,
(known only to womankind and not mankind)
The enchantment throbs in every cell                                                                           
With the vitality of a germ bursting into form,
and pops into a fascinating being,
That’s you.
 
Creation venerates Blood—
Blood which flows every month from my womb                                                          
reverberating with the mystic web of fertility and life.
The chief priest with his vermilion-stricken head,
sways in a trance and offers ardent prayers to the “Bleeding Goddess”.
When the ripe time comes once in the month of Asaadh,
for the divine red jet from the deity’s womb,                                                               
you gulp the holy water,
revere the scarlet Brahmaputra
and queue for long hours
to sprinkle the aphrodisiac charm
straight from Kamakhya’s womb.                                                                                
 
 
But when it comes to me, and us,
you make us sit outside our house for four days,                                                            
seclude us, isolate us.
You dishonour our daughters,
the Radhas, the Sitas, the Savitris –                                                                                   
also the Supranakhas, the Trijatas, the Hidimbas, –
and label us wretched and depraved                                                                            
Unfit for entering religious places
Unfit to participate in any ritual
Unfit to be seated on the bed.                                                                                         
For you we pollute the world
and you with every iota of my blood,                                                                          
fluttering in your heart and head,
which formed your eyes, ear, nose
Tongues and Hands,                                                                                                         
 
. . . with the same tongues and hands,
protest and hit back                                                                                                       
and batter us black and blue.
Coerce our tongues to shut up
and not wag.                                                                                                                       
You made of my polluted blood,
walk through every temple, sanctum, mazaar
with heads held high, strutting with pride
perhaps at your failed fertility
and lack of creativity.   

Visual by Different Truths

Dr Pratima Chaitanya

Dr Pratima Chaitanya works as an Assistant Professor in Jagat Taran Girls’ PG College, Allahabad. She is a prolific writer and has published several articles in national and international journals and books. Her poems have appeared in reputed journals including Eastlit, U.K., IJELLS, Langlit and The Creative Launcher, India. She has an anthology of poems, entitled, Explorations to her credit. She has a keen interest in theatre and has acted in several plays.

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