Advice To Anita, Newly Married

Get used to sindoor.

It’ll itch at first. Put lots.

So when your head is bowed,

It will stop his brothers

From embracing you.

Get used to oil in hair.

And tie a neat plait.

Open hair is easy to pull

It will bring you down.

That hurts, that hurts.

Get used to glass bangles.

They break if anyone drags you

It will hurt you, but it will hurt them more.

Be careful with your husband though,

He will slap you if it hurts him.

Get used to wearing payals.

The bells will alert your husband.

If he’s with servant girl, wait till he’s finished.

Don’t throw the milk at his face.

You’ll have to pick up the pieces.

I’m telling this for your own good.

I’m telling this again and again.

You dress up so he can undress you.

And pray hard he gets bored soon

Then you go to the kitchen, and breathe.

Alcohol Myopia

He says,’You’re good enough

For a quick fuck,

There’s no forever more,’

I say, ‘You shouldn’t say this

To anyone, let alone

To someone who grew up

Counting to ten.’

He says,’Let’s do it

One last time, come on babes’

I say,’You had two beers,

I had six glasses of wine,

You’d better look up alcohol myopia

When you’re done texting

That new Malayali chick you’ve found.’

I must’ve found strength

I must’ve found courage

Before I crashed out on the sofa.

The cops broke the front door found me there

Said, 'Madam aap idhar pade ho

Saab balcony se girke off ho gaya.'    

I look at the pigeon net on the balcony.

It’s broken. Dammit.

Will need to call pest control.

degchi

my degchi feels empty right now,

i have used the last of the bread slices

to wipe the leftover masala clean.

there’s nothing, nothing left to give,

years have tarnished the once shiny outside,

it’s time i scrubbed it clean, outside and in,

the stains are so tough, cracks will show.

they say good cooks don’t use chemicals to scour

their degchis, it takes away years of skill,

and love poured into the dishes cooked,

each dish a living, breathing experience,

built on what went before,

when do they know it’s time to hang it up?

i look at own old, greying crock pot,

holding it under cold running water,

feeling the cracks made by heated

arguments and unsavory relationships,

how long will it last? how long will i?

2 women

1. 

someone asked me, 'do you have aadhar card?'
how to say no? modiji bura maan jaayein toh?
so i say, 'i have a boyfriend, na,'
'should i buy this dress?'
'yes'
'this bracelet'
'yes'
'i want to go to colaba'
'chalo, drop kar deta hoon.'
'don't feel like going to office today.'
'dus minute ka kaam hai, aata hoon.'
dekha kitna support karta hai mujhe?
kitna aadhaar hai mujhe uska!
mujhe card ki kya zaroorat hai!

2.

sochtee hoon, main bhi ek app banwaa loon.
wohi, tinder type app.
for finding substitute kids.
dekho na, i have daughter, i have son
how many calls i made last week.
majaal hai ki callback kare!
that's why substitute kids wali app.
requirement yeh hai, they call once a week
do pairi pauna over the phone only,
ask, how your knee is, mumma?
teach me to put you tube on computer.
and when they start asking for money,
like real life wale kids
then simply swipe left.

April Poem # 19 weird

you're so weird,
you make me mad,
you're odd, try to fit in.
you're so strange, 
your friends are too,
flaky is good on paper,
in real life you're just stupid,
you're so off center,
kabhi toh be normal,
quirky is nice, but not all the time
how can you be so...you?

April Poems: #18 english rose and lavender

my granny smelled of nivea,
that came out of the blue tin.
and if you were good, she'd take
a bit from the inside of the cover,
and put it on your wrist to smell.

other granny smells were English
Yardley talc which she never shared,
and patchouli on her sheets,
camomile in her tea,
and the funny pillows inside her shoes,
made with camphor and salt,
to keep bad smells and evil spirits,
from stepping into her satin shoes.

everyone spoke about how she lived,
in a cloud of fragrances, some good
others really revoltingly strong,
it kept people away from her bony hugs.

i never minded her skeletal cuddles,
so she let me use the phus-phus perfume bottle,
i never minded her bodily odors,
i never minded her cackling laughter,
i pretended she was going to live forever.

her room now smells of pinesol,
and promises to turn into 
the family dump room - for stuff,
that will probably lie unloved, 
too unimportant to be used,
and too important to be thrown away,
just like its previous occupant.

april poem #17: Touch

touch,
don't talk,
there's nothing more to say,
the past is far away,
and the future but a calming bottle
with silver glitter floating gently
in lazy, never-ending circles.

touch,
don't talk,
some places need fingertips,
others react to squeezing,
and the frissons are copyright material,
it's up to your fingers to choose
parallel lines contouring
or lazy, never-ending circles.

touch,
don't talk,
sometimes scratches on the walls
tell a better story than pretty words
inflicted on a page in cursive,
feel those wounds, flakes of blood dried
and the raw softer skin exposed
how deep are they?
the scabs are still attached, 
explore, pull them apart, 
in lazy, never ending circles.