Being a woman comes to me naturally If not me, then who? I was never asked to be one I was never asked to cook
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”.
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
from my blood fangs, disarrayed cold / looting my sore body / that has done so much for me, while I ached
My father’s ancestors were Ayurvedic medicine men from a remote corner of the North Bengal. A few generations ago, one of them had cured a long-lasting ailment of the Raja of Taherpur and had received, as a reward, a large chunk of agricultural land or “joat” next to the mighty Joshoi Beel.