There are nights which make her cringe,
The woman in her detests every ounce of pain.
She feels the pain rise up her belly hitting each nerve,
The stiffled sobs and a surging disgust.
All in the name of a woman is what they say.
She bleeds through time in regular odd days
It comes unannounced kicking it's way.
And days of hushed tones with taboo attached.
Her touch defile, her shadow impure,
She gets caged in her own little den.
Look out they say, you need to accept it.
You can't whine nor put up a show
Shame, honour , chastity : Remember the catch words
Their speech rings hollow
She can feel each bit of her body in pain
She hears nothing, she cares for nothing
She bleeds but that's not a choice
And she decides to rise
She lays shame thread bare as "whisper" no longer comes home cloaked in newspapers!
"Read between the lines", I heard our professor say. We were in midst of a Victorian text. I looked at her point blank. She had spoken about something which I had no clue about. "Ma'am, would you please elaborate? ", I tried framing this sentence in my mind but my introverted self overpowered my inquisitive soul like everytime. I hopelessly waited for an explanation. Ma'am started explaining about how beyond the surface meaning of any written text, there lay a wide plethora of meaning which wasn't explicitly stated. She talked about finding a void between the written words and our imagination, that void which shapes our interpretation. That explanation opened doors to my perception of reading a text. It wasn't that I had never considered about the possibilities of meanings that lay coated in words until then, but, what perhaps I lacked was to look for that void where I questioned the layers of meaning, where I put myself in those layers of wo...
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