To Fever 2019
Blame the Season
A 29-year-old woman interpreting these day(s).
A 29-year-old woman interpreting these day(s).
You can strip me, but how can you clothe me again? Are you a man? says Dopdi;
It is not pouring as much this season for this city but yet there is a storm- a flood all around me. I am not sure why am I not drenched yet because I feel the shivers anyway. Maybe it is those mosquitoes, the ones which are present everywhere, climbing up from the nooks of my tattered salwar beginning exactly from my now blackened anklet. They suck blood, I've been told by those with wings.
I reach my nest and shed some scaly ripples in the water for it magically turns red; Ruby- like a slashed berry melting on a summery clustered road, it was bought with a week's income and so they anyway soak it in the trash gunnysack. It'll be a relish thereafter four more days in drought.
I land on my part of the ground like a feather since nobody could fuck it out of me. Madam, You must not retaliate. The part I called my own. The upturned roots don't shed any leaves-bright, boastful or bombarding. My children.
It is a set of chewy lips and torn breasts that I carry. They can now go feast. On themselves.
Oil was poured as I gagged myself out with the last chunk of their heart.
Screamed. Pulsating, for my spirit had to scoff its cover.
Who likes the indented skin anyway?
Fever, Fever, Fever
They cried in unison as I stood astray the terminal supervision.
Cry for help, It's an Emergency.
I repeat.
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The above piece has been written after being inspired by Mahasweta Devi's 'Draupadi'. Draupadi can be read on https://scroll.in/article/811931/draupadi-mahasweta-devis-memorable-short-story-and-still-chillingly-relevant.
-Narita
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