Aratrika Baidya, INDIA

NONETHELESS

The quiet buzz of the vacuum cleaner nearly lulls her to sleep

The floor is almost clean.

She told her boss that she had a fever.

The cleaning helps.

She reaches up to dust the bookshelf

Pain lances through her abdomen

Last night was particularly rough

The hand-shaped bruises on her thighs hurt

She didn't want it. It didn't matter

She wants to leave. She wants to be free.

She doesn't know the exact definition of freedom. She wants it nonetheless.

Today is women's day.

He told her to be ready today. He'd take her out to dinner.

He can't let her cook TODAY.

There is nothing more to clean in this house. She has never felt so dirty.

The hand-shaped bruises hurt a lot less on her cheek, on her arm, the belt hurt a lot less on her back

Than those three scratches on his arm that he hid under his tailored suit.

Those marks were her feminine protests,

her love that he raped on their marriage bed last night

The ring is heavy on her hand today

His name behind hers is heavier.

She chooses the suitcase instead of the expensive dress.

Her small four-sitter is more valuable today than his luxury sedan

It's a bit hard to drive with red tears

She still doesn't know the definition of freedom. She has claimed it nonetheless.

Today is women's day.

FAMILIAR

It is a physical sensation

To see your loved ones in pain

I see the trembling lip

And the squared shoulders

And the sharp determination in her eyes

The resolve not to break

And I long to reach out

To lay a hand on her shoulder

To hold her shaking hands

To say, “I’m here. I’m here and you can fall.

Fall, Love. I will catch you, don’t you know that?”

But all I can do is stand behind her

And be a steady presence at her back

And she doesn’t break, her strength doesn’t falter

But she shifts a little towards me

And her shoulders loosen a bit

Her hands stop shaking

And she breathes.

She breathes And I know that she’s heard me

And that she knows.

And I know that there is a place

where her iron will is raw

And her soul is shivering

I see her, curled into herself

And I can’t infuse steel in her will

And I can’t get rid of the cold

But I can polish her armour

And I can wrap her in a blanket

Because my love is Philia and Storge

It's faith and trust and familiarity

And she needs Philautia to give her steel

And Eros to make her warm

And Pragma to allow her to finally break

And my Philia only let’s her breathe

It’s not what she needs

But for now, it is enough

RED DAYS

For some it’s three, some it’s four,

For her there are five red days.

When she checks every time she stands up,

Every time she lies down,

Every time she coughs,

Every time she breathes,

If there’s a red stain,

If it’s showing that she bleeds,

If it’s showing that she’s alive,

If it's showing that she's a woman.

White is her enemy these days,

So is sleep, so is comfort.

Society is her enemy these days.

So she checks, she double checks

If there’s a red stain,

If it’s showing that she bleeds,

If it’s showing that she’s alive,

If it’s showing that she’s a woman.

She is barred from her God these days.

She’s barred from her life these days.

She’s barred from the world these days.

So she checks, she double checks, she checks again

If there’s a red stain,

If it’s showing that she bleeds,

If it’s showing that she’s alive,

If it’s showing that she’s a woman.

But in the dark, when she feels the blood flow,

When there's a slight pain in her abdomen,

When she realises the strength of the red

And the slavery of the white,

She feels pride, relief, joy

That there are red stains,

That she bleeds,

That she is alive,

That she is a woman.

Aratrika Baidya is a student of English Literature at the University of Calcutta. She writes primarily in English. Inspired by the dichotomy of the village and the city, and her daily commute in between, she strives to present the generally ignored facets of humanity. She aspires to be an editor of a publishing house, and a writer if possible.

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Women, Power & Creativity :: Setu, March 2019