Dead Superwoman

 

Torquoise scarf, Pom-pom ornamented khussa

       flailing her legs on the bike 

A lady with perfectly set hair, on a bluetooth phone in a polished car

Women in dusky Chadors, helping their next-of-kin up the endless ladder of tourniquet: the overhead pedestrian bridge 

A duo, with their hair in a bun, strays sticking out

Heading home, zig-zagging through the rush hour after a day of manicuring other women’s delicate finger nails,  

Twenty-something with hair now showing hints of silver, Jhumkas dancing in the post-precipitation wind,

breathing the last bit of freedom.

Before they go home,

 

To a stack of dishes, 

Piles of homework, 

Supper preparations, 

That if isn’t served on time; isn’t flavoured enough; isn’t warm enough

Will bear the brunt of the SuperWoman Syndrome

Abuses hurled,

Blue-purple bruises, 

A headless torso, 

Tell me again how home is the safest place for a woman. 

Noor

Love blinds women, they say
He’s not all bad, 
He’ll come around, I know he will 
Someday too soon, when I’ve given him my mind, body and soul 
Love changes everything
His rage: an expression of masculinity 
The workings of his lineage 
Anger is instinctive, isn’t it? 
Titular perhaps 
Perhaps it will wash away,
Like the ocean does to a cliffed coast 

Perhaps there is another horizon 
Patience is a virtue that will sail us through 
To prairies and vineyards 

Perhaps. 

Closure

Diagonals of dark abyss: the numbness of you

Slow, steady, surreptitious: rasps of jagged breath. 

Convulsively now. For it may be over. Commemoration of Closure.

Abyss flames through.

 Demented diagonals now fireworks of sharp, aching pain that begins in the pits. And ends right there too. 

Like lava baptism,

 burning yet purifying.

Whimpered, breathless, spasmodic sobbing.

Prostrating for forgiveness.

History

Of hope and tragedy
that repeats itself

Of smile that reaches the eyes,
masking the forlorn

Of people born to the Zodiac
Of losing love that was never yours

Of butterflies in the stomach
Making you feel lonesome again

Of history repeating itself,
For some things shall never change.

Of Gods and Goddesses

                                                         Apollo by Michelangelo 

like Velcro
they rip your skin apart
scabs of red flesh protrude

the gimmicks of the diety
cupid's hysterical
lovestruck, the pain is sweet
like sulphur on a wound: melancholy, but sweet

the symphony of eternality
of the bittersweet ache
we call love
is heard not by the gods
but the mortals.

Broadway Love

The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return- Moulin Rouge

Reciprocation. Balancing the act, like a scale. You're not fair if you don't. That's what Hollywood taught us. It's ingrained into us.

Love must be scored. You love me to the moon and back? I love you to the moon and back times two!

Love is overrated. And unquantifiable. Love knows no answers. What is it that you love about her? If you can answer, you probably don't.

Love is everything we don't know. Is it the butterflies in the stomach? Yeah. Yes it is. When you're 14.

Love is doing math together when you're 17.

Love is not knowing when it's going to end, when you're 20.

Love is saving up on your first paycheck to go see them when you're 22.

Love is hoping it will never end. But it does.

Love is the acceptance of love.