How to Teach a Frightened Boy?

An intense and powerful poem, by Dr. Roopali, about Bittoo’s battered mother and women wronged down the ages. An exclusive for Different Truths.

How to teach that frightened boy 
Bittoo with a runny nose
his shorts torn, his belly hungry
watching his battered mother 
inside a dark damp tarpaulin-wrapped existence 
kicked in her pregnant swell, 
her hair pulled, her head crushed 
against the brick wall 
her screams of anguished pain 
and at night in the dark 
again the violent grunts 
and the heavy hurried breathing?
“We mothers must teach our boys to value women.”
The Ladies Club Secretary was on Zoom.
 
Bholu, Babli, Sonu, Goldy and Bunty
growing up in slums and shanty towns 
like wriggly worms in cow dung
staring at the carefree neighbourhood college 
pizza burger-eating crowd.
The line of cars outside 
and the nubile giggling girls.
The tight jeans, and the tee-shirt 
stretched across swelling breasts
those unattainable luxuries. 
 
Simmering anger 
the brutal existence 
the unlettered mind 
and the angry voices of men at night
under the tarpaulin covered brick hutments.
 
At night those recurring wet dreams.
A widow full of forbidden desire
the disguised female demon
her face must be defaced.
The unachievable demure wife
abducted, incarcerated 
her defiance and her lurking 
lust for the golden deer 
her chastity must be tested 
only through fire
and that bedmate to five husbands
a whore dragged by her hair and disrobed
a mere pawn in a game of dice
and those luscious poison smeared 
pleasure globes suckled chewed and bitten off 
by the pranking dark philanderer
the disrober of bathing women
The wise charioteer.
and now at night 
the shrieks of women 
the pleading the whimpering 
the moans and then the silence. 
 
Bittoo and his mother sometimes
went to the Shiva temple
where she jostled other women
to lovingly pour milk and flowers 
on the dark erect stone phallus. 
Her God. His God.
Bittoo is learning fast
You see, Bittoo doesn’t go to school.
His mother’s saree smells of semen 
and stale food from Lalaji’s kitchen.

Visuals by Different Truths