This poem is about a woman who lit herself on fire alive, after being beaten up by her husband every single day for months. She gave up, leaving a small girl child of a few odd years behind her. What fate will she have? But what could the mother do? A typical Indian woman, she considered her husband to be her Swami or God. And when he treated her miserably, she considered herself worthless. In this modern day, we still get these glimpses every now and then.
As I sit on this pyre
the walls scream, as if stopping me
as I step into the yellow scintillation
my heart grasps, into an agony of solitude.
I shall die of a nascent murder
it did not succumb into my palms
Rather, a devotional sacrifice I give tonight
to a horrid life, I silently whisper.
These marks of engraved cruelty
adorn my skin into a tumult extortion
as I surrender my jeweled reality
into the hot anguished embrace.
The sufferings shall subsume soon
and you shall be free, from my cleavage
Renounce my concoctions,
They do not belong to you, anymore Darling.
Words betray me too often, unlike you
You have shown me, my end…who else could
I sat at your feet, dwindling with pain
as you made it numb by squatting me, again.
Now it hurts, no more
relishing the mist of acedia
That often sermons the itchy surface
beneath the burnt skin of smoke and ash.
Tempered footprints and willowy reflections
tarnished tapestry of thoughts
This is now my home, O! Lover
where nothing can be burned, anymore.
This tale is written by the charcoal of vengeance
it cannot be erased by the elements of abscess
I write this farrago, of not too long ago
of a marasmus woman, who perished, too soon.
Within these walls, I sit in this pyre
while you are gone, I dance on a sad tune
I see you in the smoke arising out of me
I see your hungry eyes, in my fire, aglow.