The goddess Durga arrives in splendour To sound of conch shells and the rhythm of dhak They bow down before “Ma” in devotion Her benevolence and blessings they seek Little Durga wears a tattered sari Blossoming breasts in vain she tries to hide Catcalls greet her as she sifts the garbage They drool at the
Hysterical laughter bubbled up within her. Mita felt the contractions again, more pronounced this time. At twenty-seven weeks of pregnancy her feet had started to swell and her blood sugar had shot up. Mita’s obstetrician had advised complete bed rest. But it was too early for contractions. Mita called her husband. Dr Verma was waiting
Pritha “Om Bhur Bhuvah Swah.” Pritha chanted the scripture from memory. Brought up in a missionary boarding school, she had been introduced to the ritualistic puja of a middle class Bengali Hindu household only after her marriage. The first morning in her in-law’s house, Pritha had been expected to assist her mother-in-law during the morning
Natasha peered anxiously at her reflection in the mirror. Was the lipstick too bright? Had the eyeliner smudged? Was her hair too frizzy? “My, my! Aren’t we all dolled up today!” Natascha spun around to find a smiling Anna standing in the doorway. “Oh, Anna” she said, “don’t tease me.” Anna crossed the room in
They lie Dead together Men of differing faiths Silent Reaper made them equal In death They die Mutilated Shot, gutted, beheaded Faces beyond recognition Grotesque Outside Their mothers wail Loss of beloved son At the altar of religion Man made Inside Their dead eyes stare At the futility Of killing their friends for a God