Poetry. # 2
1/n
I wrote this in anger/sadness after the Badaun gang rape in 2014. Was meaning to polish it before I posted.. but .. oh well. FB just reminded me...
MANGO TREE
I am the Mango tree, standing tall, standing free.
Witness for the prosecution,
2/n
Burdened by my fate, burdened by the girls.
Because on this barren parched earth, they had the audacity to take birth.
The audacity to walk freely, to giggle and to live easily.
Until that day when they were torn, and then left behind like they were never even born.
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3/n
And then the circus came to town.
The crowd, the activists, the media, the politicians.
A circus, where everyone was a clown.
"It was the Yadavas," said one with a glint in his eye.
"Must be the lack of toilets," said another, adjusting his tie.
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4/n
I kept silent. For I am mute.
I know of only one Yadav, and He was no brute.
He was the Blue One who clothed the Fire.
A charmer, who set her free so that the men faced her ire.
But, I digress. The girls.
I heard they go to schools,
Travel by public transport,
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5/n
Inhabit offices and get groped.
Some at age six, some as babies.
Some wearing burqas, some wearing skirts.
Some are so ugly that they "cannot be raped" some are so beautiful that they "asked for it".
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6/n
I heard that they are killed.
Some in the womb, some outside; by their very own kin.
Some with sand stuffed down their throats, some left in a dustbin.
And yet, they continue to be born. Instead of flowers, they are the thorn.
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7/n
That stings the eyes and pierces the fabric.
No one wants them: not the parents, not the clergy, nor the cleric.
But they just don't disappear. They are "in your face." Alive and kicking.
Despite the savagery on the bus, the iron rods, they are demanding the berth.
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8/n
Like I said, the girls, well, they have the audacity to take birth.
THE END.
#poetry
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