for us
until we can show that the lives of our children, our girls, women, the shunned, the vulnerable, the different, our own, these lives of us others matter as much as theirs, any amount of breaking of silence, of howls and cries of pain and justice will only echo as an allegation hurled at the perpetrator for, only they have had the privilege of being human so far, they reason, every voice of outrage, every scream from the pained, is but a dead world against the lone ranger, ‘me’, they assume. you victim, you hero, no matter what you do, everyone's been taught the only one with worth even when exposed, is you. even our pain must stem from your worth. when only one kind of life matters, even as perpetrator, the only one 'hurt’ can be you. so, when we break our silences dear sisters, daughters, invisibilized others, we must state to those who harm, that even when you are being for your frightening deeds shamed, listen to our voices clear as we say, this is about the one you have hurt this is not about you while you are linked to them by the chain of injustice you perpetuate, for which we demand that you meet just fate, the silence is being broken not against you but for beings other to you, we speak for us
Courage
know exactly who you are you know, always only touch that truth breathing it in, belief is bodily don't you let others talk you out of your skin walk the night take it slow curling your toes as you go walk away, sway but take it all the way take it all the way ---courage
forthcoming in her debut poetry collection 'When the Flowers Begin to Speak' from Writers' Workshop, Kolkata
‘do you forget?’
you measure my worth according to the depth and girth of your neighborhood pond you click your tongue as I immerse and over-run do you forget I am ocean? you huff and puff with your might thinking I am only a flame in the night but I am not glow or light alone I am also golden ire do you forget I am fire? rain cannot be measured by thunder nor the ocean be held in your tea cup fire will burn the wooden yardsticks you measure my multitude with and oceans wash away the embers
Baramba – a village home
that creeper on the wall the smell of jasmine garlands behind travels to the concrete city, unseen the broom still rests on the wall the blacks and the reds of the old stone floor my tiny feet hopped and missed they hold up that grand home still I haven't looked up aimlessly for so many years now at your curved arches pigeon holding niches photographs make it seem as though it was only a day or two ago that I fell by the step just missing the large iron vat that stored water in a flash I go from forty to four running wild with a trail of cousins behind the sudden sting of cool water from the old well drenches our limbs tired from climbing that mango tree my skin barely recalls the thrill the sagada* is gone as have the cattle but I see all of you even now Jeje leaning back on his wooden chair your legs crossed before you, your transistors beside you my grandmother chewing her paan looking over things big and small uncles, aunts, in languid conversation the corridors always full, thresholds with stretched bodies, marked my mum going in and out of the old open kitchen, her head under the end of her cotton saree, reserved only for her time there the corner room of laughter of the peripheries, a keeper of secrets fires burning, like the summer on our skins old hiding places sacks and pickle jars terraces without edges, so many of us, some for long, some a vacation short living under one roof that opened theatrically at it's centre every night and dawn a starry universe to behold, the world as a home within us all *a long, boat-shaped bullock cart
Sonali Pattnaik teaches literature in English in Ahmedabad. She has a PhD in the subject and her thesis elaborates upon the body politics of contemporary Bollywood cinema within its neo-liberal context and its complex colonial and pre-colonial histories. She has taught English and film studies at Delhi University, Mumbai University, SNDT University and Whistling Woods International. She is a poet, a visual artist and academic. Her poetry has found place in several journals and anthologies including, Muse India, The Bombay Review, The Kali Project (Indie Blue Publishing) and Through the Looking Glass (Indie Blue Publishing)
Sonali has been an active participant in gender activism as well as activism around issues regarding environmental destruction, minority rights and displacement. She is a committed mother who revels in home-schooling her daughter and is currently working on turning her thesis into a book. Her debut collection of poems ‘When the flowers begin to speak’ is forthcoming from Writers’ Workshop, Kolkata.
Yugen Quest Review 