Amrita: In Defence of Her Hair

Of Opinions

cropped image for twitter Amrita, and her Hair

Her parents deemed her of ambrosial* quality.
Black wires grow on her head+
For which their is little accountability.
Her pater is to blame for its heredity.
His sister, her aunt, for its similarity.

Please she never could her esteemed community.
Whose Devi she resembled in the shape of her mane
But, likeness did not save her from people’s disdain.

durga Goddess Durga

“Why care you, child?” said the Goddess in Yodaen** syntax
Your people are proud but their sense of fashion is lax.

Not I, I said, Goddess Divine
I do my best, with your grace, by every scrap I find.
These wires though are impossible to mind.
Harder to tame than the lion you bestride.

I have accepted their unwillingness to bend
To obey rule or care for tend
No egg honey mask can disguise the task
Of Teezing these Tangles
But, I’m glad…

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rolling on

the tenacity of my mouth
even when the realm of speech
can only bring silence as conversation
is the promise of a dew; talking is not cheap
it is cheapened but the decidedly virtuous
or the virtuoso of teeth; mouthing and mumbling
what was never in their vein and even their taste buds
couldn’t have known: the beauty of the lie and luck
is that they can be adjacent in their use of ether
after all we give a saliva in a spit — saliva in a kiss
yet ether is never galvanised by falseness
like saliva can never be a lifeline
lost in the nothing
I kissed you with my mouth closed
my saliva and yours was a coded language
without truth and only temerity
I could not calligraphise with my tongue
neither can you; it is when you are vulnerable the ink
of tongue can flow. We kiss open mouthed. You undressing
your fears and me unclothed from my own. ▬

holding on in a cardboard edge

There is something about the popular
deadly in its violence of conformity; of implicit “yes” and a nod of “no”
I can hear reason bubbling in a soup; atomised to perfection, simmered down
still a reason, reasonable enough to hold a candle. Burn it at both ends but have a clamp,
to teeth it in and see the spectacle. I have a reason to believe I am disliked. I know I am not an exception. What is exceptional about me is that I am honest; even when I am socially awkward I am not fake

a female’s tale

I suppose I will be understood — when I die?
that death be my proof seems such a simple thing
a cliche, a blinding light which has no priority: no proprioception.
I am not going to die, soon, if I am going to die at all
it is a stupid thing to make immortal the person who has no mortality
denying them their temporality is denying them the identity to live

so, I will not die today or tomorrow, or the day after, if I am able to hope so
— I will torture you with life, with my life, the life that you wish to deny me
I will live with, with my sins, blessings, regrets and asking my God for forgiveness
I will live it when I exhale and inhale, when I wear a burqa or a miniskirt to chide you
for trying to shame me for my veil and legs — for in each I brought the beauty of living
which you wanted to deny me — by a choker of silence, no fetish I gave consent to
no sexualisation I gave consent you. I am sexual in my billowy robes; modest as I bare my legs: my lips and eyes will insinuate life which you tried to martyr me for with the helm of the shirt, with the housework I will do and you will never give me credit for and the children I will raise but will respect you more and the precipice of my tongue wanting release — a smarting, shattering, constructing orgasm which you feel you will deny me and I am a slut to want for more.

You are the slut for being scared of me — scared of all that I can achieve and all that I am more — when I wore the apron to shine the bannisters or cook the food I am still a soldier battling as an architect, close to godliness, close to the apex of a trinity: soldier, sage and stable revolutionary with all the vices and virtues you needed and more. I am the same when I wear my shoes; those minimum pumps required by corporate to stand in toe in height with men; or, many a times look taller and deadlier than them anyway.  What they think is the erection of the tower of their own bones, so amazing right, just is an ivory tower of height not the tusk of the mammoth, or elephant, not the planetary audience — when I wear the proper shoes to school but fail because I am nice — because you wanted me to be but wanted a coquette too which I could not be and shamed me the once in a blue moon grades I got because you were afraid to admit you underestimated me. That I was out of your league.

My lips be nude or doused with rogue — or doused with the flames of gasoline fuel I will not die today, by immolation, by spears, stones, guillotine or bullets, or you choose to efface me day in and day out like acid rain on the face of what you think are statues. I will not die today of ennui, of boredom, of lack of recognition — I have my cognition, my gears, my sword, my stones, my glass shoe that I sharpened to my spear and I have the hijab, the nude hair, the scarf, the nun’s habit, the shaved head, the colour blue and the habit to be relentless in my bones and marrow. My flesh may have been born from a rib that means I can be you and more. That was the lesson you should have learned when you swallowed the fruit with me. I am poison. I am potion. I am elixir. I can be edenic in the core. I am a rampaging beast but I also show the compassion of brotherhood and sisterhood. I am XX. I am what some call woman. I am mostly female. I write the laws of the feminine. Not you. Queer or straight. Religious or secular. I am irreplaceable. I am the rib you need and the fruit you will want to swallow. I can kill the serpent, the trickstar. Both the sinner and the saint. I will not die today. I live in everything in the ether.