Monday 18 April 2011

Sancha

Blood or secretion
it is my body that oozes

Eyes and breasts turning into boils
it is my body that dribbles milk or tears.

At each child-birth, a pain of life getting separated into two
scalpels and scissors slice my pangs into pieces
it is my body that undergoes the trauma.

What does it matter to you?
You ask me to give birth to as many.

            ***
As petro dollar spread perfumes
‘Ameena’ that you want to sell is my daughter

Hunger or unconcern chased him and
‘Mastan’ slashed daggers over society in vengeance, he is my son

Hiding the agony of her children in heart’s spasms
‘Fakir Jani’  goes around every house for alms, she  is my child.

            ***   
Even before the youngest child assumed wings
carrying another burden in the stomach.

Birth-pangs now experience
no longer any motherhood-feel.

Treading on the circus rope       
hanging between life and death
at one end quenching your body thirsts
at another end giving birth to your heirs
continue to exist with  fear-filled body.
       
        ***
How many moon lights
are passing like that without blooming moonlight
in my eyes!
How many waterfalls
are flowing without touching
my feelings!

In ‘Oukali’1 rains my children are falling like hailstones
They are growing up as tears flowing from my eyes

Any time have we succeeded in chasing out
the poverty that engulfed us since childhood,
Have we made them learn alphabet…

You are a jailor, me a nurse
Any sense of attachment  we experienced?
       
        ***
I wailed when
my eldest daughter who gave birth to four children
unable to express even the pain at being hurt
breathed her last in my lap that once offered comfort.
How I felt humiliation when I, at this age,
and my young daughter, at tender age,
suffered birth-pangs at the same time!
Which stone-like heart understand the torture
I underwent in front our son-in-law!

            ***
Not as myself, but as symbol of a religion
I am worn out…

Not as a human,
But I am struggling as a ‘sancha’ producing children

When sufferings are mine
How come decisions are yours?

When body is mine
How come authority is yours?

(dedicated to women who raised their voice and proclaimed that  decision be left to them in matters of reproduction)

2 comments:

  1. "When sufferings are mine
    How come decisions are yours?

    When body is mine
    How come authority is yours?'....

    A highly disturbing poem sky!.... as long as gender descrimination and religion are alive, this poem finds relevance....

    ReplyDelete
  2. may'2011 lo OU campus lo jarige telangaana katha workshop ki sambandhinchina 'karapatram' post cheyyaledem....?

    ReplyDelete

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