We're not given the option of silence. We can not stay muted because of the absence of the silent phases. We're always communicating. Talking. Squeaking when not talking. We go 'tcch'..Or 'ohh'...'Hmmm' is now an acceptance. Our opinions are elongated along the sidelines of the muted spectators and thoughts pretzeled into silent stretches of soccer fields with swarms of Us, We and Them.
While I was squirming for answers of live love and otherwise, there were questions heaping silently that ultimately becomes a kaleidoscope of flashes in different hues, and you try so hard to define that feeling but you fail. Fail to answer them. Fail to smile through it all. And now that I turn around, I find muddy footprints on the cream-colored sheets I'd chosen to write on... And just when I thought all was over and done with..
My prompts for DAY3 are
1. The topic of the blog post should begin with C. [AtoZChallenge]
2. Write a sea shanty (or shantey, or chanty, or chantey — there’s a good deal of disagreement regarding the spelling!). Anyway, these are poems in the forms of songs, strongly rhymed and rhythmic, that sailors might sing while hauling on ropes and performing other sea-going labors. And what should your poem be about? Well, I suppose it could be about anything, although some nautical phrases tossed into the chorus would be good for keeping the sea in your shanty.
[NAPOWRIMO]
I knew a girl.
She wanted to become a poet. She even attended poet meets and was also appreciated by some renowned ones.
She was definitely going to become famous one day, I'd often say to her.
Then she got married. She had to comply to the parental pressure. She was in love with a guy who wasn't ready to marry and his parents had found an 'ideal' match for her, who'd a business of his own and was a decent fellow. She gave in.
The husband knew nothing about poetry. She stopped attending college. Or the meets.
She gave in.
The husband now wanted a child. She wasn't ready and at only 25 years of age, she wanted to take time accustoming herself as a married woman. The poet had to die, and it refused to.
She loved her husband, like a dutiful wife but to be boned every single night to conceive a son, was reprimanding. The woman in her, screamed as he dug at her flesh every time.
She gave in and got pregnant.
She stopped taking my calls. She feared I'd instigate the poet to rise again.
She gave birth to a beautiful daughter and named her after me.. Priya.
The husband within days of her delivery demanded a son. The following two years resulted in a series of abortions and miscarriages.
We accidentally met, only yesterday. I happened to be in the neighbourhood and went to meet her. She opened the door, and I could hardly recognise her with the pallu. (part of the saree that covers the head)
''Who is it", asked the Mother in law. ''No one. Someone's come to the Wrong address,Maaji.''
She wanted to become a poet. She even attended poet meets and was also appreciated by some renowned ones.
She was definitely going to become famous one day, I'd often say to her.
Then she got married. She had to comply to the parental pressure. She was in love with a guy who wasn't ready to marry and his parents had found an 'ideal' match for her, who'd a business of his own and was a decent fellow. She gave in.
The husband knew nothing about poetry. She stopped attending college. Or the meets.
She gave in.
The husband now wanted a child. She wasn't ready and at only 25 years of age, she wanted to take time accustoming herself as a married woman. The poet had to die, and it refused to.
She loved her husband, like a dutiful wife but to be boned every single night to conceive a son, was reprimanding. The woman in her, screamed as he dug at her flesh every time.
She gave in and got pregnant.
She stopped taking my calls. She feared I'd instigate the poet to rise again.
She gave birth to a beautiful daughter and named her after me.. Priya.
The husband within days of her delivery demanded a son. The following two years resulted in a series of abortions and miscarriages.
We accidentally met, only yesterday. I happened to be in the neighbourhood and went to meet her. She opened the door, and I could hardly recognise her with the pallu. (part of the saree that covers the head)
''Who is it", asked the Mother in law. ''No one. Someone's come to the Wrong address,Maaji.''
She folded her hands and asked me to leave. And
truly, I felt like a stranger in a land where they worship Goddesses within
closed doors and empty promises.
Farewell
and Adieu my friends of Hypocrisy
Farewell and Adieu Hypocrisy and its friends
Again! Again! Again!
For I am bent, not broken, not broken yet
And I shall dare to walk alone again
Again, Again, Again!
I am a lady with my head high
High! High! High!
While every dog has a day,
It is bitches day every day, yeah, everyday!
It is only after we break free that we realize that it was so easy. We realize that we have wasted a precious part of our life contemplating.
ReplyDeleteSo very true Amit! SO very true!
ReplyDeleteI know it is easy to judge the woman, but I feel that for someone like her conditioned from childhood to accept, it is difficult, even impossible, to resist.
ReplyDeleteIt is the conditioning that I fear! :(
ReplyDeleteWomen more than men are conditioned, it seems, to put their dreams on hold. Maybe it is biological due to being childbearers and certainly cultural in many instances. Sad. Hopefully there will come a point in those lives where they can pursue their dreams.
ReplyDeleteThey are, Carolina.. :( That is what hurts the most
ReplyDeleteA strong post Priyanka. As long as people want to be victims, there are always going to people who will victimize them...
ReplyDelete..its sad that women still have to kill their dreams for the sake of their families..why it never happens the other way around..loved the powerful narration..keep it up.. :)
ReplyDelete