by N. M. Mathangi, I M.A. English
this is the season of parties, this is the season of stories.
stories of a war —
calm, silent battles we won unsmiling,
our histories dipped in the agarbathi smoke that permeates the forbidden niches of our lives.
when you pull these stories from our tongues,
they are going to sound like anklets clinking in the expanse of our living rooms,
they will sound like the murmurs of a hundred feet on ramakrishna mutt road as temple goers haggle with the flower sellers,
they sound like suppression,
like the swallowed pain of 356 nights being unleashed over 9.
we are celebrating us today,
celebrating the fire in our bellies, the agony of birthing that fire into this world, to give back to the soil.
we are celebrating our katyayanis,
our shaktis,
look out.
we're coming for you.
watch as we lay waste to your empire;
we bring you our bodies,
we bring you our war.
we are celebrating our lakshmis,
our goddesses who give and give and feed your greedy little stomach,
we are celebrating the cries of birth, the rise of the soil.
we are coming for you;
we bring you our silence,
we bring you our war.
we are celebrating our vidyas,
the encyclopedias of our history fused into each cell of our being;
you can try to cut us open, but remember
our bodies have been trained to part with blood,
yours haven't.
we are coming for you;
we bring you our war,
we bring you your judgment.
we are celebrating us today.
our kajal-lined eyes and song pouring forth from our throats,
celebrating our vermillion-scented hands, the scent of our womanhood.
this is our party and you don't get to crash it.
we're taking back our nights, my friend.
nine nights we party.
and the morning after,
we're bringing victory home.