Fret

         A random day takes its pace

Pace of mirth and dolour

And a woman of 'honour'

Resumes her race of rot.

Myriads of real lives 

Woven into threads of 

Stories breathe in and out

And pour louder cries

In the streets of commotion.

Centuries of obedience 

Of will, of helpless screams

And tucked in dreams

Of tears and abuses

Of shrill shouts and 'fragility'

Of violence, of red cards

And a mirage of freedom.

A woman of decency

Who is she?

A laughing clown in a saree;

Or a dumb puppet wearing 

Bangles of colours -

Red and black braced in gold

Fret and fever masked in

A smile of doll-like docility;

A tender dragon-fly tied

To a thread with a stone 

At its end, mocked by 

Static minds as she fights

To fly high, growing weary

Fainting, collapsing into

A ground that looks fair

Awaiting her with dug graves;

A dog with many faces

A pet dog pampered with 

Petty words of 'love'

And at times, a barking

Street dog that is beaten

And broken, fettered up

Blotting bruises in a bitch's

Body or a bitch's mind.

Dreams killed or screams

Silenced in a stream of ego

And when she barks in a

Sheer explosion of biting

Emotions, she is crowned

With names of shame.

As if no life, no brains 

No chunk of thought suits

The library of her mind

As if she was just a rose of

Scent and fleshy petals

With no thorns - a disabled 

Thornless rose.

Every rose has a thorn

Of resistance, often cut 

Short by arms of power;

Every human has a point

Of defence, man, woman

And the third gender alike.

Nameboards and milestones

Show the way of life, but 

Are often not rechecked 

To erase the mistakes in

Spelling, terrible errors

Clothed in awkward accuracy.

Thorns should prick, but

In defence, waves should

Rise, to hamper the wildly

Brute music of injustice

And to topple down

  Tall towers of dominance.

A home of equal thought

Owes its place where the

Warty ground is levelled.

A bitter world of norms

Prescribed for some has

No rest in a just heart.

A sound world of equal

Space craves a pace

Of a running race for

Growing its roots, deep.

Roots that would never

Break, and smiles that

Would never be smudged

Lost in the muse of oblivion.

Where love and honour

Would be petalled in roses -

Roses with thorns.

        

                                         - Vinaya Mary