By Priyanka Pal
That woman’s breasts are not at all attractive. It’s not saggy, however. It is just not what it should be. A woman of 16-20 should not have such underdeveloped malnurtured breasts. The nauseous face of a toddler appeared behind her – somehow in a manner of will-o’-the-wisp, and then again returned to the darkness of her saree.
“Tomar chhele naki go?” – I asked, to have an idea of her real age.
She nodded negatively. Then it must be her brother. Their mother must have gone to collect food from some other charities. I know, they never had any ration cards.
“Kothai thako?” – my next question perturbed her frugal eyes.
She was measuring the rice and dal, potato and oil. Rice for five days, dal, potato and oil—another five days. Fourteen days maximum if they eat half-belly.
“Hui digtote”, she said. Collecting her doles, she stepped towards the direction. I know she is telling lies. These abandoned uncultured women at least know never to tell a truth to a shohure babu unless it’s necessary. More than Corona, they are afraid of rape, the destruction of their thatched home. They know that those who are bringing charity today, can take it back tomorrow. The toddler guffawed at the distributors.
Priyanka is a freelance writer. Her poems have been published at Induswomanwriting. A cinephile and an admirer of paintings, she writes poems by following subconscious blasts.
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