The woman of nine nights (Navratri)
By Ronald Tuhin D’Rozario
Ricochet. The city and its people shine up to celebrating the nine days of Durga on earth when in some dark lanes a mother, a daughter, a sister or may be a wife is gangraped almost every day. Does Ma Durga’s light really shine upon our face?
Pitri Paksham
My city of dust and sin
Holding whores and hounds;
Naked penis hangs loose
Predator stalking prey;
The demon smirks
A mirage.
Where light bulbs never reach
Night. A loss of names,
Death. Bones scrap density
A harness of an illusion.
Debi Paksham
Night one:
Mahalaya
Agomoni. A radio frequency
Mograj smells blue
The birth of my eyes,
I travel.
A stack of hay. A mould of mud
A yellow face paint.
I am me.
Growing old. Turning young
Crimson fence the white sari
Vermilion sky my name
I am Naari. I am one.
Night two:
Earth is an osmosis
My feet touch its shore.
Poets. Hawkers. Buyers.
A numbness,
I fall.
Subarna. My whore child greets.
Night three:
Grief.
Autumn lose its shade
Jhar baati maps my courtyard,
An alpana covered red floor.
A naked urchin
Counts his ribs.
A locomotive puffs,
A stiffened belly. Ma. Kheyte dao.
Night four:
The doe eyes stream
A play of shadow. A hint of light.
Moon stroked face,
Within and thereafter.
Heart. I never felt a beat,
I want to sleep.
Night five:
My house gathers feet
Dust it formed. To dust they leave.
A fate of faith. A faithless fate.
Amen. Silence drowns.
Night six:
I isolate
My aalta smudged footprints,
Crisscrossing places.
The mangal ghot offers a resistance,
Pains turn into ash.
A face like paan paata
Clubbing grief between palms,
Lips. A cross border partition.
Night seven:
Amulets fill my arms
A shining spear tip,
My shoulders droop low,
My hands arch,
A shield
A daughter just been raped.
Night eight:
Lotus petals turn white,
A conch shell. Dhak beats a rhythm.
If incense smelt funeral,
Pushpanjali was the last choice,
A home to be left soon.
Bhog filled plates
Bhogini.
My anchol turns a shamiyana,
A world in war,
For food. For flesh. For an existence.
Night nine:
Nine is a number
The head bows at feet;
Cloud and chaos
It has accomplished. Accomplished.
The grantha draws heat,
An open agnikund.
Pour some ghee, will you?
Bisharjan:
An earthen lamp stares
Chalchitro, a mere festoon
I leave.
Ma, come home next year,
A home of Subarna.
Ganga drinks my face,
Eyelashes fix the gaze.
Black.
Bio:
Ronald Tuhin D’Rozario was born in Calcutta, India. He studied commerce at St. Xavier’s College, Calcutta. He’s a poet and a storyteller. Many of his poems, book reviews, articles, essays, and short stories have been published in various national and international e-mags and paperback anthologies. Apart from writing, he has a taste for Indian classical music as well.
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