Join Magazine Secy.

In red
Deep left red
On the straw stuffed mud wall
He wrote:
Join RPF
Another
Crossed it out
and wrote KYKL
The last
A hasty scribble
A witty retort
when in
advertising thus
for Kangleipak
A patrolling van's headlights
Shone on the mud wall
And he perched
Uncomfortably
Nailed between
the black sorok nalla and the mud wall
Cornered thus
He wrote in red:
Join Magazine Secy

Remains of the day

My last evening in L 79 A, Malviya Nagar; after 2 years of joy and sorrow. The view from the balcony says it all... Good things come to an end for better things to happen.

http://soibamharipriya.blogspot.com ©

His and Hers

http://soibamharipriya.blogspot.com ©

I died a little

I died a little
Killed by impure little droplets
Though there were celebrations
The stained cloth
Became my flag
I was congratulated
For reasons I knew not
My mother said
I was now a complete woman

I died a
little
Killed by impure little droplets
Deflowered
He celebrated
Being the first
That became his flag
Worn proudly around his neck

I died a little
Killed by impure little droplets
That refused to trickle
On the wedding night
Condemned
His disappointment
Inscribed upon doors without eyes
The cold door knob
Refused to shake hands with me
Wooden, opaque, unseeing
And it slammed against the shivering frame.

*For shree, chao for inspiring me, encouraging me and for arguing with me

http://soibamharipriya.blogspot.com ©

To the Researcher

Write me love
Write me a companion
In that questionnaire you brought
Write me food, with salt and pepper and turmeric
But don’t come empty handed
Just to fill up your pages

I gave you tea sweetened with sugar from my neighbours’
I gave you tea sweetened with milk from my master
Yet you come just to take
A little more than what I give
Tell me
What do you write
In that pages of yours
Do you write of my suffering?
Does it make a good story?
Does it say I need everything
that everyone else need?
Does it say I suffer everything
And I pray no one suffers the same?
Does it say my village is parched,
That my river runs and find its way in your water taps?
That my earth produces and finds its way in your kitchen?

Tell me, Tell me
Talk to me for a while
Not just of your questions
Tell me
What lies beyond these fences of mine?
I haven't been on my feet for awhile
Listen to me
Even if they are not answers to your questions
I want to talk about
Purple skies of my youth
Though all that I have now
Is yellow winter
And you - my only visitor this year

http://soibamharipriya.blogspot.com ©