Women Without Men: In Solidarity
It is never a good time to be a woman,
Amma used to say
in little wee hours of the ripe of day.
Her broken-down bones signaling guilt and anger.
You will forget the world for a man
then in the evening
you will have so much catch up to do.
Amma passed on her anxieties to us girls
like dried fish recipes she carried over
to this side following grandpa
along rice fields mangrove webs alike
her womb carrying our fate
sealed long back
I fold her words in the top rack with winter linen.
As summer recedes
love becomes a solitary act again
and I have to head home to myself
to take my body out to see the lakeside sunset
and relearn making tea for one
unlearn relearn unlearn relearn till
I’ve cemented men are so full of shit
and stand firm on it, this time, hopefully.
The air has become so pure now
perhaps I’m seeing mornings too early
reading beyond the headlines of the express
Sitting by yourself is not that bad
I particularly watch the women go by if I pause somewhere
and pause I do a lot these days
Women with certainty in their holds
melancholy in eyes
spirit exuding out of bones
rage deposited at gut walls
walking with heaps of produce from 8am bazaar
collecting more and more as hands go full
and full A small voice calls me back
from my evening strolls
to the well of self pity
that this city doesn’t allow diving into
I schedule half a mourning in autorickshaws
write a word or two in there
I’m miles away from the mango showers of home
known to fix prickly hearts as good as prickly palms
spring just grazes past me
where has the stillness of March gone?
the days wasted drunk on calls of Koel?
In solidarity sometimes Ms. Menon leaves me
laal saag and bathua from her kitchen garden
Back from the post office she tells me
how a Mrs Qureshi from Gulmarg
still writes to a Mrs Raina in Byculla
In the terrace she holds a daak stamped in Bombay
wondering what it must contain
worth the wire of their youth
it’s just how it has been for them
tender words on tender paper
keeping things whole
I find a little bit of my Amma in all these women
their nonlinear recitals and rambles
There is a Mrs Diaz a floor below me
buying a bag of baby corns from Kamal’s van
for her turtle her husband left her as insurance
They live for a hundred years
so when the children move on to stronger passports
you’ll have his strong shell as a stool
his patient pace to match yours
Few blocks down Mrs Naqvi
takes a walk around Chapel road
of her yesteryear where her Roman used to paint murals
Under one of those she now eats a cranberry ice stick
no longer needed by a man to rush home
keep tea ready before he arrives
I go to her to raise and drop my hands in grace
You are building strength
you won’t realise that now
she taught me how to paint my feet red
and make it last weeks.
How to be Two Onlookers on Carter Road Promenade
We’ll live happily by the sea
in a house with large windows
and curved veranda left behind
by some small time musician,
once hustling in the talkies;
the wild cats of the rocky beach
will wait for us every twilight
even after the fresh bombils and fat rats,
perhaps to peddle philosophies
with their tucked in paws
living by the sea is flourishing for a marriage
like rivers are to civilizations -
you can run off to the new sand patch materializing
in the middle of the ocean
there egrets coming out of the breeding season
clocking your conjugal affairs
can tell a thing or two against codependency
We’ll live through the afternoon of life
braving the cruelty of end of July rains;
the ocean that cradles our woes through summer
will rise to have a feast out of our supplies -
but you and I have never fretted over its temperament
when joy will elude us, which is quite often
you’ll say happiness is a wide spectrum of contentment
we oscillate between turbulence and peace
in those stormy nights you’ll calm the winds
with raag malhar up your sleeve
Time will pass quickly with you and
I won’t notice it’s evening already
perhaps we’ll be busy fixing my hair
and on days our roof will fly off, you’ll touch me like fire
you touch me like fire then what?
then we’re on our back, it’s a new moon night
the waters have receded far, its stout belly now silent
on such a night we’ll dream back to the gas station fight days
when we used to be in debt and so in love
it filled our cups and bowls more than enough
I was lost at sea, I will be lost at sea
I will lose you like quicksand under a midsummer sun
but as they say, the sea always pays off its debts
the sea has brought us goodness like a gift
and you have brought me peace.
Aritrika Chowdhury is an analytics professional fresh out of university living alone in a big city. At 24, she gets the most happiness out of her correct grocery orders and small verses written while stuck in traffic. Poetry has been a saving grace and hence she writes. Her greatest inspiration is Sylvia Plath, with whom she claims to have a spiritual connection. She lives in Mumbai and hails from the city of Kolkata. Her most recent publication has been in Mantis, a journal out of Stanford University. Previously her work has appeared in the Trouvaille Review, the gulmohur quarterly and Sahitya Ekhan Bilingual Magazine at the Kolkata International Book Fair.