Am I so grown up to a lady that-

I can’t sit on my father’s lap?

Have I grown so much that-

I can’t stay with my brothers at night?

Am I grown to the stage that-

Male teachers can’t teach me alone?

So, I’m in that stage now-

Where I’m not safe with my own?

And my mother has the right-

To feel insecure about me,

All the time. But why so?

I still admire those, who-

Give me the vibe of a baby girl.

I know I’m eighteen plus, but-

It’s not quite right to segregate me.

একটু পরেই দুপুর হবে
ক্ষিধে পাবে, ঘুমাবে মেয়েটা
বিকেল, সন্ধ্যা, রাত হবে
এভাবে সকাল থেকে রাত
এক বসন্ত থেকে আরেক বসন্ত
কথা ছিল ছেলেটা আসবে
গ্রীষ্মের কাঠফাটা রোদের
মরিচীকা জেনেও
অপেক্ষার আবেগে থাকতো দাঁড়িয়ে
একমুঠো ফুল হাতে
বর্ষা এলে অভিমানের সুরে
বৃষ্টিভেজা জ‍্যোৎস্নার কাছে নালিশ জানাতো মেয়েটা
শরতের ম্লান আকাশের দিকে
থাকতো তাকিয়ে
হেমন্তের বিকেলগুলো লম্বা হতে হতে যেতো মরে
শীতে চাদর মুড়ি দিয়ে
গেছে কত রাত একা কেটে
একদিন অপেক্ষা আর অভিমানের ডানায় ভর করে
মেয়েটা কোথায় যেন গেল উড়ে
ঠিক সেদিন ছেলেটা আসলো ফিরে
দেখলো –
মেয়েটার যেখানে দাঁড়িয়ে থাকার কথা ছিল
সে আর নেই সেখানে
এক টুকরো কাগজে লিখে গেল শুধু
” নারীরা আসেনা ফিরে কখনো
কখনোই না “

Poem: নারীরা আসেনা ফিরে কখনো
Poetess: Flora Sarker
Photograph Courtesy: MUSEO DE ARTE DE PONCE, THE LUIS A. FERRÉ FOUNDATION, INC.

I wonder how mother kept
Count of Time
Her daybreak meandered into the dusk
And the night took her unawares.
Her mornings were chunks of fast paced time
While she scurried around the house
Packing food for all people
Who had Work- outside, elsewhere.
Home was only a nondescript place
Without work.
When the afternoon rose high up
Against the blue sky, the clothes
Washed and starched would fly
In the clothesline.
Evening was a glad phase
All at the table with their data
Of all important tasks accomplished.
Her chores lay quiet, invisible
In the dark corners of the house
Or may be her heart!
And everydayness swallowed her days
Day after day, night after night
And didn’t she feel hungry, or tired or bored?
I wonder-
In my novel quarantined life.

I was you, I was us and I was me.
I was born to get right equal to a He and a She.
But, I was disowned, I was abandoned ,
Of being sold and even thrown.
Because of the unique gift of life, gifted by God.

A 4500 years of Journey and a never ending battle,
It is just being done to get a respectful title.
From the age of  playing to the age of ageing,
I was always taught
‘How not to love me”.

I have the brain, I have the heart.
I have the body , I have the emotions
So how was I not worthy of living and achieving anything ?

My Family disowns me,
Ny Friends laughs at me,
My society illtretard me.
Thus, I was taught yet again,
How not to love , how not to love me.

From an endless sleepless nights
To infinite number of breaking Mirror.
You made me to think again and again
It is so difficult to live in Between He and She.
I repeat , in between He and She.

From being honoroured by Rama
To being respected by Arjuna.
I was given love and acceptance

  THEN?
Yes, there was presence of Humanity THEN?

I feel ashamed, I feel betrayed
I have no words to explain,
How much it pains,
When I feel SHAME in just saying my NAME.

I don’t ask for more, I don’t ask for less.
I just want to Know
Until when , I will be forced to
Live in SHAME?

Poem: Denial to Rise, the Neutral’s  revolutionary…
Poetess: Mohini Tiwary
Painting: Empowerment
Artist: Keerthi Shanggar

It’s not the time yet,
The sky is very dark,
The stars twinkle,
Light is far away.

It’s not the time yet –
In the half darkness
Cruel wolves roam,
Venomous snakes move around
In search of prey.
Unhappy ghosts breathe out
The fire of lust.

It’s not the time yet
For the morning birds to call,
The lotus to bloom,
The flute to play on
The tune of love.

It’s not the time yet,
Wait for the moment
When light comes
In the middle of darkness,
With the rise of the sun
The flood of light
Will wash away all darkness.
Wait for the moment
When you and I,
All will be one
In the light of wisdom.

Painting Courtesy: Slava Fokk

I can figure you
When sitting at your favourite jaunt,
You rummage pages of books old,
I can see you throwing a furtive glance
At the girl who runs her nimble fingers through the shelves and undisturbed glides by,
But lest your eyes get interlocked with hers
When you swiftly shift yours,
I can delve into that heart and emote the new-found ecstasy
When you slide into one of those characters
And feel a oneness and an empathy,
I can hear your sigh
As you try to assuage your wounds with wisdom shared auld lang syne,
And when you just come across a heartfelt quote
Which teaches you one of life’s lesson for the day,
I can feel your rhapsody as you nib your imaginary world
Out of those words in the vignettes shared in a page,
I can vouch for your craving for a quiet corner
With your precious bibelot cuddled carefully in your lap,
Making you enjoy a serenity like those halcyon days,
And when you wish time would pause and defer its race,
For I too, love the smell of dog-eared mushy books and like a recluse
Trust their company more than anything else,
Grateful for the sangfroid I have imbibed
To face all odds and sail happily through life.

Painting Courtesy: Tamara Adams

There were only two lovers
that loved long and hard,
like a leaf of two broken halves,
there was no place for third.

One half being machine cold,
It’s gears got rusted old,
the other half was lively stone,
It’s life died in it’s mold.

Thus both being too late to love
are humane in the flesh,
for even love in mortal mold,
learns to lose it’s place.

Painting Courtesy: Ricardo Celma

There is hardly any light here

Here, in this semi darkness

One is mistaken about

The time of day

The clock says it is past mid-day.

Outside, beyond, there is sunlight

Playing on the walls of the buildings

Lighting up the leaves of the Jamun tree

A shade of brighter green

The sky is greyish blue now

A few minutes back, it was

A shade bluer

Punctuated by soft cotton balls

Of vulnerable clouds.

Inside the room,

Behind the pale of the glass shutter

Sit I, writing my mind

In my red book,

Conversing with my own thoughts –

If I were somewhere where that tree

Or those houses are, I would

Be embarrassed at the

Sudden glare of light

I am content here,

In this little space

Of semi-darkness and

Of utter quietness.

Painting Courtesy: Slava Fokk

Dancing with the shadows

In the squally nightmare

Soaked in the silly rain

Droplets from her long tragic hair.

It grows and grows and got taller

Her tresses like the black giant scared away the children,

So, she confined herself to a shabby shapeless and windowless home.

With my hair- raising mother and a spider in chaos.

In an old damp basement, I hear a raven- Laughing and screaming with reddish glare,

Slap the door, step out in the moor 

To get refreshing air-

Where children cry out,

“A Monstress!”

“A Monstress with long hair!”

Painting Courtesy: James Jebusa Shannon