Women in narratives

In the street and on the doorways were groups of women sitting huddled. Their eyes flashed and bodies crouched in expectancy.

Their faces spoke of the high drama extracted out of the most banal events that took place in the neighborhood.

A marriage is knot that is bound to loosen
We know it in us and they do not , in them.
The color of a sari which had repeated itself
Because memory has played its dirty tricks.
Housemaid is beaten by her drunk husband
Who stubbornly refuses to call it a day/night

Dark are the deeds and nightly goings-on in the house
Where a lantern flickers weakly in the dead of a night.

In Professor Alzheimer’s department the woman is scandalized by the maid embracing dark men. The woman bangs her head against the darkness of a wall. Her narrative is language you and I fail to understand and not even she understands.Her words stay stuck at the throat and only a hiss comes out a finished product.

Her product is coming to a close. A sort of photo finish when a body climbs the wall as a photo and remains there till the other bodies climb their own walls


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