I thought I had run into you when I saw Zoya on the brickroads of Karachi. She was carrying the weight of her uncovered head with Rumi on her lips and rumours in her smile; I couldn’t help but wonder if she too hummed Tagore on lonely nights.

As I approached my past, the unmanned dinghys of the Arabian Sea seemed to have followed me from a different harbour, where the skyscrapers stood like unopened letters stacked to impress your firstborn child. The salty sea breeze might have been your childhood friend, but then these waves were always mine.

Maybe It was time to let go.

We kissed for 12 months while the bullets made love to the crumbling walls of Karachi, a city with the infinite passion of penniless poets and warrior saints. Draped in the lightest of cashmere, Zoya couldnt help but be worried – the curtains of my thoughtful musicals never cared much for bulletproof jackets.

Zoya’s grandfather was a veteran of two wars, the smoke from his imported cigars still fills our balcony like the laughter of your firstborn fills the halls of your new sea-facing mansion – I wonder if Naina even knows my name. My books have begun to sell now – you should make her read ‘Summer Wounds’ one day.

The newspapers tell me I am widely read by the underground leadership because of Asif – my brother in law who has taken up arms against men who want to burn Zoya for walking with her head uncovered – Karachi is no longer the same.

They have banned my books now – apparently God hates the words I use to describe our summer love; do you also feel the same way ?

I dont know, maybe they are right – after all Zoya still flinches every time I mention your name.

Zoya’s grandfather is sick – the years of tobacco have now given way to the gunpowder smoke – I am lucky you stopped me when you could. Do you still make people change their ways ? Maybe. But something tells me even you can’t help Karachi.

Its your birthday today, I know you haven’t gotten a piece from me in the last 10 years but this time it will be different. There is a fading sound of Zoya’s screams as I leave for the post office; i cant let her love wipe my past.

A bullet hits me from nowhere ; I hear a distant cry of an animal celebrating the first **** of the day. The pain is blinding but they shoot 10 more bullets into me, there is no modesty in ****** it seems.

As I lie dying with eleven bullets buried in a heart that has known more wounds than love, I have begun to wonder if I should have chosen a different harbour for my love – the words of Tagore suddenly seem far more familiar than those of Rumi.

Maybe its time to let go.

I look upon her
and smile
Do not smile
she says
It is not good
she says
It will cause
your face to wrinkle
your lines to deepen

Look at me
she says
I do not smile,
my face is smooth
as buttah
But I never was
one to listen
I cannot help it
my rebellious self
as I smile at the memory
of my grandmother
wrinkles deepening
at the corner of my eyes

Resume: Jewel de Saex
Address: Lost somewhere up the hills.
                 email: me@yourownrisk.mule
                 Tel: + network not available

Summary

Hire me if: you are looking for an adventure.
Clouds, gorges, and I never disappoint, for we can cry.

Education

Bachelor, Mistress and Widower at the University of Zoya, majoring
in Life Sciences, with a minor in the applications of horseshoe magnets.

Expertise

I know them laws of attraction well +

New languages: both Silicon and Carbon-based ++

Magic, luck and fate.

Experience

For years I steered a boat
riding a rough river that
passed storms every day.

I was the rain-maker, I can
bring tears to any passing cloud
by my mere hand-gesture:
(all the dough-kneading.)

I was also the chief gardener
for Loz, whose farms at
the other end of the Earth
I visited by the switch door
in my old photo-albums each day.

Skills

Jugglery, innovative use of cutlery, reading runes, plucking prunes,
riding boats on dunes, talking by eyes, hearing by sight.

References: Not available even on request.

*NOtes:

+   Turn pages back and you always find, only one person was in love.

++ I can decipher the meanings in the lispings of cherubs and angels.
     I understand the cloud and the river, as of men in any tongue.

Our cute little princess, our Madame Cama turns 11 today.

Here is wishing her happppinezzzz on her Birthday

She is cute, she is naughty n for everything has her own style n way

Our artist loves arts n crafts , creating beauty with slime n  clay.

Chocolates resist she cannot, from them she just can't keep away

We wish her well. Lots of love n wishes all good, all the way.

Love you Zoya.
Our best wishes....
Dae, Ma, Shez, Phil n Fre

(A Modern Draupadi Speaks)


I go by many names —
Draupadi then.
Ananya, Zoya, Meena now.
Or sometimes just, “a girl.”
The one on the screen.
The one they spoke of in whispers.
The one who should’ve stayed quiet,
or stayed home,
or stayed gone.

---

They say —
Look, how late she comes home.
Look, what she’s wearing.
Look how she talks...
Walks...
Laughs too loudly.
Speaks too clearly.
Lives too freely.
And somehow,
it is always her fault
for being seen
at all.

---

Draupadi was traded once —
in a game,
while kings sat still,
watched,
and chose not to speak.
Now, Draupadis are traded every day —
in boardrooms,
in backrooms,
in promises that sound like love,
in silences that sound like safety.

---

They don’t call me Draupadi now.
I walk into courtrooms,
not palaces.
No royal sabha,
just white lights, wooden chairs,
and cold stares.

No one rolls dice anymore.
Now, they roll footage.
Loop my silence on screens.
Zoom into my tears.
Rewind my pain
for ratings.

And still,
no one asks me what I felt.

---

They call me victim,
but not of my own making.
They call me brave,
but only when I remain silent,
when I am invisible
and unspoken.
They don't know that courage,
true courage,
is standing in the storm
and not asking for shelter.

--

They say they respect women.
And they do —
just not enough to believe them.

And when I speak,
they say,
“Why so angry?”

Because I am.
Because I have to beg for justice
with every breath.
Because I still carry my dignity
in a purse zipped tight
in case it’s questioned again.

---

I am not here for pity.
Not here to be saved.
I do not need rescue.
What I need is to be seen.
What I need is not salvation,
but for the world to stop
turning my dignity into a prize,
a coin,
a wager in someone else’s game.

I am not asking for rescue.
Not for cloth from the sky.
Not for gods to intervene.

I want
a place
where no woman needs to prove
she did not deserve
to be destroyed.

---

I was never your sacrifice.
I was never your symbol.
I was never your choice
to make.

And when I speak —
hear me.
Not as a story to tell,
but as a woman to listen.
A woman who was
and is
and always will be.

I am not a myth.
I am the truth
that stands in front of you.
And I am still here.
Because I am not a myth.


©️ Susanta Pattnayak