The cavern of my sin has entered me and I am shattered.
The bleeding, such stench – even crows do not come for my decadence.
Your world nauseates me, why else would you visit my brothel and seek God?
This crowd of people, and their exhaled breath, all combined, makes this city one of smog – look how shrouded it appears, deathlike, monstrously glaring at the night of lovemaking, where dogs will ride cats.
People drag each other – they are filled with violence, they are out not so one may live, but to kill, their wrath is covertly described, by how their vehicles are aggresively maneuvered.
My back, tells you the story of my real age – astounding, more than I have lived.
I am the grandmother of my rapist, therefore.
Did you think I would not know the meaning of that sly smile – the covert touch with which these people have been raping me, ever since I became full-bosom?
Maybe, the idea of passion commences with a woman’s mammary instinct.
The writers of Bible had once sucked the same.
The stench of my blood keeps them at bay.
When outside my brothel, a long crowd gathers, because they’ve been told I have healing properties, the priests of temple call me sacred – otherwise, my identity has so far been the talk of the bazaar, and I don’t run for defence, for nobody can offer me what does not exist, in this nameless world.
Nobody is supposed to look at my pit – the ones who do, die seamless deaths – and their wishes are the fireflies found in the jungles on the outskirts of Pynursla, where I was last taken, by a gang of drunk labourers.
They were the same story, of my past life’s Chinese invasion.
I was a woman of Tibet, still pregnant from my dead husband’s done act.
My still born child – lay outside my canal, and the men chose to use me, to their needs.
I did not scream for God, he must’ve been locked too, in your rooms of Paradise, where snakes are sofa-sets, and nymphs gather to ignite love.
Your breed has named me, defamed me – what attachment is left of me?
The skin of pink children reminds me of my long-gone friend – a deep sea of tears remain guarded by my eyes which are the shore which keeps the sea in check.
Have you never wondered, how the fury of the sea is contained by something as small as a grain of sand?
Otherwise your lands would have been aquariums and you, the perishing fish.
Only once, on the bank of the river of Grazel, a vagrant man named Ranjha, had kissed me, very very deeply.
On asking, why he convinced Heer, that he could see her even in a prostitute, he had merely given the reason of her omnipresence.
I had laughed at his face – and told him thus.
“If you are so short-sighted to have forgotten your mother, and instead burnt your shepherd self, for the purpose of a rich village girl, whose father resented your sweet face – you would have perhaps married me. I may emerge from dirt, but at least never produced my husband as a slave at the hands of people who were supposed to plead guilty at his tavern.”
The ways of world will never be understood, never ever, at once ever.
But when, when dawn will break, my Mother will appear, and I will say my Father’s name – there my childhood, will float before me, the house, the dolls and the colourbooks, all at once, and my dancing feet, adorned with sweetly musical nupurs, and the cackling laughter of people, never to be seen on the face of this Earth.
Lord, if you must flow, flow of my written word – because I am hopeless otherwise – the credit of the bank you owe two little children, who had believed innocently in your kindness, is long overdue.
Won’t you pay them, Lord?