Auspicious

Maybe taking up Sociology wasn’t the issue,
maybe
the issue was
The first time I’d worn a sleeveless dress
was secretly, at my best friend’s birthday party,
hidden the pictures that were clicked,
my heart thumping away like crazy
at the thought of father would find out
maybe the issue was button poetry made me cry
now, and not
men.
Maybe the issue now, was that the shawl with the old perfume
and stories of how Shafak and I spent winter nights
wrapped up around each other
lingering on it, has been washed
and the bottle of perfume lay blue and broken
like a heartbreak;
The balcony drove sunlight away again yesterday,
maybe because the bhnar in which I had chaa
at a dhaba, on the highway,
spoke to me of
the bruises on her perfect nose crumpled
with the acid that was thrown on it;
spoke to me of Junaid whose cooking was
delicious, but Bharat refused to taste it;
spoke to me of the houseboat which leaked
blood and stained the Dal;
spoke to me of the records
that broke,

and the gifts that were returned back
in cardboard boxes taped and marked
“CAUTION: DELICATE AND EXPENSIVE”
and I discovered a no man’s land where
feminism lay numb, democracy lay infertile
and the bold blue highlights on
my hair said
“CAUTION : YOUR CLEAVAGE IS A BAIT”
and I could go on and on
and count on my fingertips
the number of times she was afraid to kiss me,
the number of times my ankle tipped her ashtray
off the table,
the number of times they fired from above the bridge, when
he was swimming.
And the fag would know, that the smoke had indeed come to
make amends with an orange ice cream in hand.