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Rinzu Rajan

Rinzu Rajan is learning poetry to survive, doing research to see a breakthrough technology someday, and wailing and whining against the atrocities women face in the name of moral, religious and socialvalues. Blogs at www.rinzurajan.blogspot.in

Six

Six years.
I counted them as six minutes
or six lives.
Sixth was the day,
sixth the month
when I stabbed you
to six deaths.
Outside my house,
mountains rose out of molehills,
wrecked wheels transformed
into cars and coaches,
markets became malls,
towering in the streets
while women wailed
against crimes of lust and loathe
even with a lady of husbandry.

Here in my country nothing changed.
I still tie my hair in a bun,
wear barrettes and love my grey,
abhorring with audacity
my obsessive compulsive disorder
of scrubbing tables,
floors and my brown skin
of dirt and disgust.
I poached plants to
fill my belly and heart,
practising dishes
I never wanted to cook for you.
And in these six years
I’ve loved children
deserted by spouseless mothers
and starving men,
seen muted maidens step out
of their porches
after being cremated till dry,
fallen in love with coccus creatures—
those that levitate light.
Cribbed and choked in cliché,
poetry you may call
not worn, my veil
in respect to men,
tongue tied them
in a vain act of valour
mooted and mimed
their dominating desire
to love me as a woman.

When I learned to
brew my coffee
without bitterness
I realized six men
had walked past me.
The first and third loved my poetry
while the second condoned it to banality,
the fourth with bibs around his neck
wanted to braid a noose for me,
the fifth never existed
in my poems and parables,
and then on another sixth
a sixth one walked in,
the one who gave me a garland of gold,
my marauded earth swallowed all five
while nailing the sixth in your coffin
And I developed cold feet,
those without cracks,
and forgot the number six.

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