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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
