By Sangita Saha
She puts on heavy makeup,
And carries her attitude
Like those intricate designs on her skirt,
Stitched neatly, maintaining the sequence
Highlighting the weaver’s experience.
The red lips lure men
For that, the society has castrated them,
Is it their birth to blame?
Or the hunger that consume their flesh
Like the thirsty predator,
And leaves her in a dilapidated space
To gratify another masked face.
The unfathomable expression of those eyes,
That gauged the slumbered conscience,
Lying satisfied, next to her,
Slither like the serpent as night advances,
Abandoning her to die in hell,
Murdering the unheard voice to rebel.
Is the curse only prophesied on women?
Carrying the legacy of lineage.
How farcical is this society,
That worships her on the altar,
But leaves no stone unturned to judge her.
The clay of the forbidden territory
Is used in making the idol of Goddess Durga,
The incarnation of ‘shakti’, the power.
Is the charge of innocence only bestowed upon men?
Whose steps never falter to enter into this dark den.
The dawn has approached, but not the light,
Because, the hunger for food gives them no respite.
The decked up pandal and the grandiose
The sound of the cylindrical drum ‘dhak’,
Never echoes happiness,
Nor the power to unleash the demon, “Asura”,
Constantly demeaning the sanctity of women
It’s the doom that pervades the atmosphere
After the goddess is immersed in the lap of the Ganges.
A dreamer, yet rooted in reality, Poetry and Photography are like binge eating to Sangita to ease her emotional distress which the lockdown/covid blues have cultivated.