By Anshika Aggarwal
I describe anguish like I would a metal,
Iron taste on your tongue and sharp blood in your mouth,
Red and red and red,
Red like sindoor and bangles and henna,
Red like the heart of the fire at the altar,
And the gold of glittering chains on a bride’s feet.
The glinting metal of the knife my grandmother cuts onions with,
Clanging in the kitchen, aluminum, not iron,
And the taste of salt,
Hidden away in her sari’s pallu.
Metallic blood in fists and split lips,
Riot girls swarming streets,
In photographs dyed sepia,
Red turned to coffee brown,
Loud voices, racing hearts ripped from desperate throats,
Furious and relentless wildfire.
Anguish in iron bars of jails,
And wooden lathis in hands
Aimed to splash red across faces of lovers
Who were never meant to kiss red lips or paint their cheeks in pink,
Lovers who were forced to be fighters,
Fighters who loved wrong, they say.
Copper on knuckles,
And copper nooses around necks,
Red copper dripping from razors at night,
When anguish burns red like fire
And turns inwards until the coals turn cold.
Metal is the colour of anguish
Like sunlight is the colour of love,
And is it a surprise that they both turn red in the end?
I describe anguish when I look inside,
When I see my mother’s face mirror my nani’s,
And wonder how much I inherited.
The red we carry in our veins
Never running cold even through generations,
Even when sunset strikes them with gold highlights,
Like jewels on the brows of people long past,
Beads of sweat and blood and sisterhood and love,
Blooming in sweet pink ribbons and flowers tucked in hair,
Scarlet underlining the cracking voices of women finding themselves,
Red staining all our hands through barriers of bodies and distance and lives,
Alta, jewellery, stove-burns, blood,
Strength
A collective anguish like a string of fate,
Red and red and red.