The pandemic has highlighted a vast number of issues that earlier were either repressed or waved away by a single flick of hand, since, the general mindset of the world had developed to be more apprehensive of issues and ideas that might challenge the beliefs and notions held onto for decades. These times have forced the governments of the world to accept the presence of these plights and this poem talks about one such subject: domestic violence. DV cases increased in the lower income groups because of the unavailability of alcohol to the spouses of the victims. The poem tries to capture the environ of one such case.

It’s a windy night,
cold and windy,
and I pray to God that he doesn’t hear me.

Leaning against the unabashed and naked brick wall
is more wearying than I thought it’d be.
The gritty dry cement stings the new gashes,
so my body ends up resembling a shaggy doll thrown askew on the floor,
with my back arched just a bit to keep the biggest gashes and blisters from scraping against the surface
while propping my weight on the little unbruised patch on my left hip.

Finally able to steal some time for myself makes me release a sigh.

My position, just behind the rows of faded drapes left to dry on the stretches of wire between our houses, still dripping water,
gives me the advantage of being hidden and I appreciate that for I can’t look into any other person’s eyes without my shameful screams and groans and pathetic wailing ringing in my ears,
without feeling dirty,
because their eyes tell me they heard it,
their eyes tell me they know
and I can’t help but feel naked and small.

The wind which was mute and still for some time as if stopping to inspect the intruder of the silent night,
picks up its pace again,
seemingly bored of me
or probably disgusted at the pus oozing wounds on my knees.

The breeze although cool, does little to pacify the angry cuts.

I realise I had been tracing the bruises and small scratches on my thighs,
trying to count them,
but stop the movement of my fingertips
for it’ll really be of no use on the rest of my body
as it resembles more of one mangled collection of old wounds and new
making them indistinguishable.

I realise another thing,that I’ve been sighing a lot lately,
so I stop myself before I let another sigh of self-pity
slip past my busted lips.

A peeking, darting, scared pair of eyes
catch mine
but they’re gone before I can react,
and even if I could,
it wouldn’t have been much.
It probably would’ve been a fleeting look
or a heavy stare,
filled with knowing and common feelings.

It could’ve been with Meenakshi from the house over
or Deepa from the house by the water tap.

Both the pairs of eyes,
mine and hers,
although saw the same vile things,
although display the same insignificant emotions,
although convey the same nauseating self-despair
and although replay the same scenes with different husbands
and different cots and glasses and plates and pots,
are ashamed.

Ashamed as if the others could see
her husband’s frenzied eyes,
red with visible lunacy.

It’ll be my turn again tomorrow,
my turn to be ashamed,
my turn to hide my face behind the corner of my saree,
my turn to thank this pandemic for giving me a reason to hide my beat-up face behind a mask,
my turn to let the other women know to hurry and whisper their prayers with more fervour,
to pray to God to end this lockdown,
so that the beatings would stop,
so that the men could get their liquor and the crazed beatings would stop.

My attention goes back to the dried yellow leaves
which seem to be glowing golden under the streetlights as they rush down the street,
some flying,
some running.

Running.

The gushes of the wind now feel like whip lashes on the already raw flesh.
It jolts me awake,
telling me to get a move on.

I give a fleeting look to the flying, little leaves again,
looking like a flock of yellow birds hurrying to reach their destination.

I get up without getting tangled in my loosely wrapped saree,
soaked red in various places,
which got torn almost everywhere a few hours ago.

I had gotten up to go back inside,
but those little birds have held my eyes captive.
More and more leaves are breaking away from the branches
and joining the herd.

and the sight is doing something to me,
something that I welcome
and I’m scared that I welcome it so brazenly.

I might die out there.
I know, death is right there,
In that very air in which those birds are flying.

But death has been right beside me these past weeks
and I know that I will get to know death soon,
if not today then tomorrow
and I’ll be but an assaulted and bruised body turning blue and black,
left on the garbage pile behind the slum.

But I will choose how I want to greet death.
The leaves have picked up their paces,
death is as if coaxing me to come and try it.

So I make my choice and I run.

~Bhargavi Singh
XI K

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Self Intro: I’ve been a student of this school for little over a decade and got into poetry at the young age of ten years. My first english poem was published in Aviral a few years back and to look at how the general theme of my writings has developed since then is quite striking, albeit it needs more work. 

In real life: When people don’t write self deprecating things, we run out of what to write for them. So whatever she wrote is true, she’s a phenom of a writer and belongs to Erudite.

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Photo Credits: Aarav Macchral, XI J