I heard him say, you stay at home all day.
How you waste time, I’ve no clue.
From morning to evening till I am back,
With children off to the school,
You’ve the house to your own.
What you do to with all your time is beyond me.
Stop watching the lousy soaps.
Stop chatting to old nursery-school friends.
Stop complaining to God.
Why not learn stitching like Sandeep’s wife?
We could do with some curtains. Don’t you think?
Why not raise a few chickens, a goat or a cow?
What you need is work to engage you.
Haven’t you heard, an empty mind is a devil’s workshop?
I stare at the food on the table.
The clothes darned, washed and ironed.
The house tidied again and again after child play.
Floor dusted, swept and cleaned with disinfectant.
Another day lost between breakfast- lunch-dinner.
MY RIGHT AND YOUR RIGHT
You call it defiance
If I write poetry
About family.
Our family,
Mine,
Yours.
What has to be kept in
Shadows
Cannot be brought into
Light.
True.
But isn’t it defiance
To publish photos in Facebook
To be liked or disliked
By a ‘friend’
Who mean nothing
Than a passing silhouette
I don’t want photos
uploaded or
downloaded.
But let my words
scream silently.
WOES OF A WORKING MOTHER
Running behind the testing train,
Umbrella in one hand and bag in another.
Feet slipping and mind twisting,
I think of my son I leave behind.
His face had dimmed when I tied the sari.
It broke to a weep when I tied the shoe
He started clutching the window railings
Whimpering, whispering as if to say,
Amma, please please don’t go.
Its night when I get back home.
Jo’s already in his evening dress.
I missed his playful mornings.
I missed his afternoon siesta.
I missed his evening fuss.
As night fall, he huddles close.
And holds me tight.
Or is it me that doesn’t want to leave
This little one year old son of mine?
Tears well up in my eyes.
When he jumps off to his ayah’s hands.
I sense their growing bond.
I hate myself for it.
I hate myself more
When he turns and calls her Amma.
THE BIOGRAPHY, OF AN IRON ROD
I, an iron rod.
One metre long.
Two inches thick.
Gratified bearer of your national flag
On last August 15th.
Stood waving at the rally of humans
Marching gleefully along Rajpath.
Proud heads, smiling faces.
Indians, I shared your pride.
I, an iron rod.
Forsaken by everybody,
Stepped over by cattle,
Kicked by children
Lay awaiting my destiny.
I protest at pieces of shit
Clinging at my once-polishedhide.
Sun singeing the faded tri colour cloth.
My words have no consequence.
Indians, I wonder at your indifference.
I, an iron rod,
Ashamed to meet you in the eye.
Tormented even in my rigid soul.
Wretched witness to a heinous rape.
Thrust into the vagina of a young girl.
Again and again,
with vengeance, by a boy of 17.
Indians, I shudder at your savageness.
I, iron rod.
Savour redemption
As a girl swung me in terrified rage,
Quashing the head of her molester.
Smashing the veins in his eye,
Before running to save herself.
Indians, let resilience resurrect you.
Bionote
Anju Sosan George is an Assistant Professor at CMS College Kottayam and is the author of The Woes of a Working Woman. She does not intend her words to be a pocket full of surprises, rather hopes it would be a wistful reminder of some fading memory most women could perhaps relate to.
