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!
I am the eldest grandchild in my family. And being the eldest, I was pampered a great deal by my grandparents. My aama (grandma) and baa (grandpa) always shielded me from every possible dangers including thrashings from maa. I have pleasant memories of evening story sessions as grandpa took me to bed. Aama would oil my hair and tie pony tails which resembled coconut trees that I used to draw. Sundays meant elaborate sessions with my grandparents. Baa would trim my nails, aama would fondle me to sleep. Their bed room was literally my playing room, my story book reading room, my painting room and what not. With time, as I grew, I got a room of my own but their room was still my favourite one. When I left for hostel, I missed them more than I missed my parents. It was in the year 2014, I had come home after my exams when aama received a pressure stroke . She couldn't make it. I had spent a month as he lay sick on her bed. All of a sudden, there was a role reversal. I could
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