By Shreya Pandey
The first cry satiated
with a smile which
was narrower than
the one registered
previously.
Two gloomy faces—
One, gazing in a fixed
direction, adjusting
his immobile feet.
One hung above in
a garlanded picture
frame, pale and pliant.
A blue lady in the
house concealing
her dejection under
heavy veils, supine,
runs after her insolent
son—largely spoilt.
The forsaken new girl
settles being orphan,
sits by a river with a
sharp mind, too blunt
to cut stereotypes
that bankroll the
ancestral patriarchy
of walls that frown
over her freedom.
Coalescence among
collision of utensils and
that of society's nose is
the only joke that hits her
right because the rest of
her spends days with
people, who are allowed
to tame her, riposting
which she grew wild
and acerbic.
Of tales that gained
recognition centuries
after they were buried
beneath orthodoxy,
the traces of which
were picked from the
fossils of broken quills
and were resuscitated
in a scholar's account.