Category Archives: poetry

Stripping Feminism Bare

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Look at me

I am your muse

I am your visceral expression

My eyes are frozen like shards of glass

My hair is billowing bold in the breeze

I lean in, sighing, as you lightly

Claw and caress my sun kissed cheeks

Just let yourself reign over me

Between us there is no privacy

Yet for the show and society

You seek that which is yours to give

And in frustration I bite my lips

Now blood is splattered, embalming them

Your desperate fingers wield cloying red

Hah, the blood is on your hands!

But worry not, my lips are sealed

Subtly curved and gleaming still

Oh, are you smiling back at me?

Yes, oh yes, think happy thoughts

Come closer and fear not

My back is rolled, my head is lolled

My eyes are purring

At you

I am the predator in the wild

And in your heart I am a muse

But tis the pure and simple truth

That you are me and I am you

Caged, dormant and demanding

And no, I cannot be mocking me

I’m just waiting to be free

Let me out and in the night

We shall bathe in soft moonlight

Then come morning we shall dance

Fear not and take the chance

Come near and set me free

We shall, as the morning glories,

Bloom, a man from within a woman

Or a woman from within every man

Devastating duality, shades of gray

Precariously balancing the yin and the yang

– Akanksha Gupta

Silence of the Lambs

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When a rush of words

Tumble down

In a jingle of sounds

That somersault

And rhythmically halt

With eyes emoting

And muscles rippling

There is a hush

Settled amidst a crowd

Of eyes and ears

That, until now,

Were tingling

With anticipation

And now

Are listening

In admiration

– Akanksha Gupta

The Hefty Shades Of a Histrionic Weather

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Reds and oranges, purples and blues

All melt into dull greens, mustards and yellows

Bleak and dispirited, the skies as well

Resound with anguish and despair

So profound

That their sorrow

Trickles down as tears

Upon the ground

Fine pearls around mother’s neck

That seem to peck upon the earth

And flow into parched rivulets

That kiss the seeds and seedlings alike

Anew with a fresh breath of life

The skies grow happier; their tears wiped

The sun returns; as does the silver line

And a smile once again graces upon the morrow

Yet portending another tomorrow

 – Akanksha Gupta

I AM FROZEN, LET ME GO

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I brutally awoke today

To a shock of snow-laden air

Assaulting my benumbed lungs

And just when I thought

My misfortune

Couldn’t worsen

Icy fingers gripped my neck

(As soon as I threw off the covers)

And promptly dunked me

Into freezing waters

And, oh, by my breath

I flailed and fought

And floundered for air

But soon I lost

And lost my breath

And gasped a lungful

Of icy wares

The cold seeped through my bones

A blue haze haloed my head

And just when I thought I was dead

My eyes opened 

To a morning, even colder

Toasting to my impending torture

– Akanksha Gupta

Fantine Is Still Alive

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Fantine is alive not just in our memory, but in reality as well. There are many Fantines. Every person has the potential to become a Fantine. What are we doing to ourselves?

Anne Hathaway’s touching performance of “I dreamed a dream” as Fantine in ‘Les Misérables’ will remain burnt into our hearts through time. It was the raw emotion that dripped from her voice, the pain of her trials that echoed in our ears and the portrayal of her life that singed our hearts. But the silence that lay heavy in the air then, continues now. Its essence has permeated; bred through time and broken the shackles made by the blood and sweat of all those who tried to keep the monster at bay. The shackles had always been feeble anyways. And so, that silence that haunted Fantine still hangs like an albatross around the neck of the society.

We see cases of domestic abuse, molestation, rape and so on fill the pages of the newspaper. It chills us to the bones. For a moment we are skeptical of what remains of humanity in this world. We wonder why our society makes monsters of good men. Well, there are a number of different theories.

Some argue that it is conditional behavior. Those men observe that most of the crimes (at the rate of one molestation every 15 minutes; one crime against women every 3 minutes; one dowry death every 77 minutes; one rape every 29 minutes; one murder every 16 minutes; and one sexual harassment case every 53 minutes) go unpunished, and instead, the victim is blamed. They deem it acceptable in their mind.

But here, we wonder whether they have any discretion, any rational thought to counter it. Well, that thought is perhaps trampled by what they are taught to practice; subtle gender inequalities that over time begin to seem commonplace to both genders. It gradually becomes a part of their culture. It transforms their mindsets into that of the oppressed and the oppressor. For instance, in 2004, the NHFS reported that at least 35% of the women being abused thought that they deserved a brutal beating from their husbands if they neglected the household chores or children, while 51% of such husbands also deemed beating their wives acceptable if they disrespected the in-laws. It is no wonder that according to a UN report, 6 out of 10 men in India commit domestic violence.

Here are some more unsurprising statistics about the attitude towards gender equality in India (published jointly by United Nations World Population Fund (UNFPA) and Washington-based International Center for Research on Women):

  1. 93.6% men believe that a woman should obey her husband
  2. 86.2% men believe that the most important role of a woman is to take care of the home and cook for her family, against 74% women who said the same.
  3. 74.6% men and 65.1% women believed that if a woman does not physically fight back, it is not rape.
  4. 93% men felt that ‘to be a man, you need to be tough’ compared to 85% women.

Look closely at the 4th finding mentioned above. It shows how both the oppressed and the oppressor are in fact oppressed and shackled by the parochialism of a society that unknowingly perpetuates the aforementioned inequalities. The quintessential male is limited to a gender role defined by high aggression, independence and an unemotional countenance. This is one of the main factors for a higher rate of suicide among men than among women, since it prevents men from seeking counselling against depression.  Gender roles indeed play a major part in the increasing incidence of related crimes.

But not all women or men are the quiet martyrs of yesterday. The Fantines of today are trying to break the silence. One out of every four Fantines in India is speaking out against the atrocities. Can you hear their voices?

I can, and I tried to capture the story of one of them in the following video. And while these modern-day Fantines are slightly different from Hathaway’s Fantine, the similarities in their circumstances are heart-rending, as is the fact that they still exist.

I hope that we begin this new year with the hope to bring about a change and make this world a better place to live in.

– Akanksha Gupta

BEHIND THE SCENES

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When it comes to war, each person roots for different sides as though they’re their favorite cricket teams. Some look at the history; the originator, the aggressor. Some look at the bigger picture; the countries or alliances benefited. Some also look at the power struggles and support either the expected winner or the ‘underdog’. And then there are some who look at the religions of the warring factions and decide upon the one with a darker overtone as the unequivocal perpetrator.

But who does the majority of us support?

The majority of us supports neither side, just commiserates their misfortune, passes a remark or two with indifference and gives up thinking about them as a lost cause, all the while thanking our stars that we were not born in the ever-warring conflict zone. The majority of us pities the poor people born into that world, for ‘collateral damage’ is inevitable in war.

The question is what if we were born into that world?

The question is, how many of you stop for a moment to consider the “collateral damage” – the civilian life, livelihoods, peace and stability? How many for a moment, step out of this humongous cloud of hatred and rejection that is bound together by a history of foolish pride, stubborn politics of retaliation and wrong decisions? How many of you ever think about the ‘Humans of Israel-Palestine‘?

Oh no, this is not really about the Israel Palestine issue. It is about how, by supporting neither sides, we are still supporting the war. This is not an attempt to criticize or propose a solution. It’s a cold hard recipe of bitter ugly truths. It is a mirror to our actions; a harsh reminder of what we may be doing. And all the while, it’s reverberating the voice of the people spouting those truths, splaying their misery unto the world and crying for a reprieve. Indeed, it’s about those people suffering behind the scenes.

 

Broken orbs, ruby red, as fresh as the midnight air,

Splatter onto me today, I shrug them off and stare afar

A little jarred, with eyes scared, a little cold, a little hard,

My bones benumbed, cling on, chilled to the core,

The anger should have melted them by now,

Burnt them to a blackened barbequed crisp, but

I guess my heart has frozen like lead; strangled

My neck like an albatross, and I fear

If a little more sorrow is pelted on it, it’ll break

Apart, like the crystal glass that showed me once,

A little girl, a life away from grenades and gunpowder,

But shows me now the lifeless face of my mother;

I shudder, and open my eyes to the moon-white, as

The crystal ball shatters into a million orbs, ruby red,

As fresh as the midnight air, and I?

With a grim smile, I shrug them off…

– By Akanksha Gupta

To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

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Once, I dreamed a dream like none other

Even if the dream would seem like any other

In my heart I knew it was quite well and true

And yet not too true that it be a lost wonder

–

I’d known it to be a world of many vices

Of slippery tongues, of bruising avarices

I too was tainted, but not entrenched or entangled

Perhaps just too naïve to see through the disguises

–

My dream, while true, knew it was tainted too

Its innocence couldn’t stand in a world of you

You who came and ripped it apart so brazenly

You who felt no shame, while I felt abused

–

My dream lay forgotten, as I remained comatose

A dream of your horrors began as the sun rose

My nights, sleepless and red rimmed, ghosted by

I gave up the ghost; reckoned you’d never feel remorse

–

I used to pray before God died as a folly of my past

Perhaps a part of me lamented but I was already too aghast

Now I could only see a world filled with the likes of you

You disabused my rosy view and gave me a cynical start

–

Yet every night I eluded sleep, for such were my dreams

A hardened soldier could weep hearing the silent screams

Of incredulity, of helplessness and agony, of vain pleading

As the sadistic pleasure in your eye would mockingly gleam

–

The others tried every other cure; law has always been invalid

And psychiatric help at the very best can be futile and insipid

It wasn’t until I met someone who’d met someone like you

That I felt I was being quite self-absorbed and painfully stupidz

–

I realized by wasting away life I was making a huge blunder

A victim I may be but you would win if I would surrender

My dream may have borne spite, but it was born incorruptible

It would withstand your terror, it would not be torn asunder

–

My glasses never were rosy, but selectively typhlotic

Before you came I was apathetic, when you left I was pathetic

It wasn’t until I met someone who’d met someone like you

That I realized I wanted to be that someone; someone empathetic

–

In a world filled with the likes of you, lone victim I cannot be

Yes, I’m a victim due to you, the law, the society, but never due me

I’m an atheist, I’m a believer, I’m a man, I’m a woman, I’m a survivor

You’re none; you’re a soulless monstrosity; and that’s all you’ll ever be

–

– Akanksha Gupta

PITTER-PATTER WENT THE BANTER

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Rain is music

Music is rain

Imbued with soul

Its every grain

 

Which to my eyes

Is a maze

And my heart

Is solace

 

But to my ears

A mellow dulcet voice

That murmurs softly

A hundred lies

 

Even for the tongue

Lingers long the tone

Longer than the gulp

From an ice-cream cone

– Akanksha Gupta

THE VOICE OF HUNGER

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This post is a part of the blog-a-thon by World Vision India on Youth Ki Awaaz

Do you know what hunger feels like? Do you know what it is like to work without food and sleep on an empty belly? Do you know how those millions of people who struggle for every single morsel every single day of their lives feel? Through the story of a young girl, travel through the bitter palpable taste that shocks your senses into numbness:
 

VIDEO TRANSCRIPT (FOR POETRY)

Behind the curtain of brackish brown hair
Caked with the breath of a dying hope
Meshed like the wires of a broken basket
That I sometimes see that lady carry
Across the street, filled with apples
And apricots and cherries and all things good,
My mouth salivates,
But then,
I wonder how I must look in the mirror;
No, that lady didn’t bring that basket for me
Why would she?
I chant it like a broken tape recorder
She doesn’t know me and if she ever looks at me,
All she must see is one of those nameless faces
In the crowd, whose eyes peek out
In longing, like the fruits from her basket,
And she sneers; does she think we are thieves?
Well, she’s not wrong, we might as well be, if –
If we could get away with it, and as such
There’s been a thought or two in my head
That consumes my entire being
Whenever that eternal gnawing in my belly
Whenever that dull ache, whenever that stubborn throb,
Once in a while, becomes a mute struggle
Of not keeling over with pain,
I persevere, I persevere, I persevere
Nothing can be done;
I want to cry, but you can’t hear,
My voice doesn’t touch an apathetic ear
The tears have dried; my heart is hollow,
And I’m still standing hunched over a puddle of blood
Clutching my big bloated belly with bony hands
That are still bleeding from last week’s labor,
And now my mouth is also shining red,
I wonder how I must look in the mirror;
I am burning up,
My breaths are shallow, my head is dizzy
But I – I’m still working
So that I can at least fill my belly
With a stale bread at night
You see, I’ve stopped stealing half-eaten dinners
From the bins across the street
Last time my friend did it she slept
And in her sleep
She tossed, she frothed and she bled
And she never woke up again
Sometimes I wish I had been in her stead
Because I can’t bear this hopelessness alone
I can’t return from this godforsaken shantytown
Languishing in the heart of a merciless city
To my home in the village with my parents
Who a few years ago had sold me, the seventh daughter
To some company, for a few thousand dollars
And I – I forgave them, you would too if you saw their
Skeletal ghostly frames, hungry stomachs and lifeless eyes
Hanging onto this earth by a stroke of misfortune,
You see, we the poor, we the hungry, we the malnourished
We the society’s dregs who are kicked daily by the mercenaries
By the law, by the war, by our poverty, by your apathy,
We, who barely survive by the day at the precipice
And barely get sleep with this empty belly at night,
We either live like the roaches or die like the moths
We are as desensitized to life as we are to death
Perhaps that’s why I can admit that today –
Today, I’m feeling a little too drained
And dizzy and drowsy
I’m still burning up like the sun
And I think I might just pick up something from the bin
For I think this is my last breath, yes tonight,
I won’t wake up again, and I – I’d like it
Of my own volition, of my own choice, of my own desire
I’d like to be able to choose to die
As I couldn’t choose to live

-Akanksha Gupta

FATAL FLAW: DIVERSE JUDGMENTS OF A JUDGMENTAL DIVERSITY

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Water from the icy heart of a river

May taste sweeter than bottled Bisleri’s,

The mountain air caressing the Himalayas

May feel softer than a tepid Savannah breeze,

Red-ribbed strawberries from different regions

May ripen and taste each quite distinctively,

But you still drink, you still breathe, you still eat.

 

A camel strutting across Saharan sands

May vary with the one from Kalahari,

The sun over the desert soil may beat down

Brighter than over a tropical canopy,

A monastery in Taxila may not

Resemble one that is Chinese,

That’s why tourists flock them all, equally, enthusiastically.

 

For without the differences that make them unique

The world won’t have anything of much worth to see;

The world won’t have what makes it worthwhile to be

Even us; for you see, it is laid bare in our identities –

That which separates all of me’s from we –

That what makes you so different from me.

 

And so I lie in an ageless wait and long for the day

When the world would have time to stand and spare

To look at me, at what I am and yet not care

A world where it doesn’t matter who I am

As long as you know that I am me and I can be.

 

– Akanksha Gupta

THE SECRETS OF AGEING

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 Whenever I look at your sweet sagacious face

Schooled artfully into childlike innocence

In your eyes I see that spark of accomplishment

And of mischievous omniscience that is telling,

And a sliver of guilt, so palpable and so moving

That I almost raise my eyebrows to my hair

But before I can fall into that old trap I resist

The urge to sigh and pardon any folly, any crime

For the fear of spoiling, I see the guilt is not as much

A subtle apology weighing down the conscience

As it is self-reproach for having been caught

And so, my lips twitch of their volition, before

I resume that stern face from practice and imitation

Of a memory when I used to be as old as you

And now I realize what I didn’t realize then

And what you don’t realize now, but one day –

One day, when you are as old as I am now

You will know it too; it was your naïve, wide, eyes;

Open windows, untainted, that spoke with abandon,

With those that could see right through your lies

– Akanksha Gupta

RAKSHABANDHAN SPECIAL (FROM A BROTHER TO A SISTER)

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Whenever I look at your face lit

With annoyingly contagious smiles perched upon it

I smile because you are my dear sister

And laugh because I can do nothing about it

 

And I look on with reluctant resignation, when,

You fight, you mimic, and you pamper me,

And secretly amused by your company I grumble

When your moods change like waves on a sea

 

Now, though I’m known for my rustic humor

And my poetically tasteless articulation

Know that while my words be crude

My eyes shine with unspoken adoration

 

Since you managed to keep calm and get married

I crave for your now-dramatically-diminished company

I miss you so much from the bottom of my heart

That I’ll let you harass me with teeka and raakhi

– By Akanksha Gupta

FOR SOME ARE BORN TO ENDLESS NIGHT

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It’s those some times

When in the quintessential hush

You whisper

From a broken raspy throat

Crackling through the silence

As though parched and raked over

Burning coals, over

Scorching summer sands

And into those silences of the desert

Your agonizing cracked voice

That has been silenced

By fate perchance

For so long

It has so much to say

It longs to, but nay

The silence of the desert

Offers no solace, no oasis

Yet you whisper

It speaks of strength

That you’re so hardened

That only you know, it’s an illusion;

Where they see courage

I see the desperation

I see you’re broken

Because I’ve been there too

The ageless quietude

Of whispering

Of wetting the throat with emotions

Buried somewhere far but not forgotten

Of wetting chapped lips with blood

That you wished was not a figment

Of your imagination

You bleed within and wonder

Why it all never bleeds out

But like a rot on the inside

It gnaws at you, it clings on, it clots

And you scrape it out

With harsh rasping sounds

And guttural cries and howls

Your throat is hoarse

Because you have so much to say

But no one to tell

So you tell the silent air

The forbidden secrets you hope

It will share

You hope that one day

You’ll get there

I won’t lie and say it’ll be fine

But it will get better with time

Your lies, your self-deception

Your ability to hide the pain

To hide yourself

From not just the world

But from yourself

– Akanksha Gupta