Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Veil of Convenience

“One is not born, but rather becomes a woman.” — Simone de Beauvoir

Patriarchy perches,

throne of thraldom beneath him,

lounging under a veil of convenience—

fabric fixed, face half-hid.

No decree escapes his lips;

crossed legs, shaded eyes

declare the creed:

she stays behind.

Born human—

made into Woman—

he, the subject; she, the object,

a silhouette of service,

sun-hatted, still.

But—ah—her hand

clasps cold rebellion,

gun gleaming like a promise,

its barrel breathing the hope

to hush his smug silence.

I wait for the day

grass drinks her ache,

waiting’s weight washes away,

and she steps forward—

shadow blazing ahead.

***

The Cup at the Bedside

Every night,

I cradle the same cup—

clear glass catching the glow of the lamp,

filled not with water,

but with whispers I wouldn’t dare speak aloud.

Sharp shards from the morning’s quarrel.

The cold curl of an unanswered call.

The bruise of a glance that glanced too long.

I pour them in,

watch the liquid darken—

drip by drip—

to the colour of midnight fears.

By dawn,

I drink it down in dutiful gulps.

Swallow the sour swirl of suspicion,

the grit of grudges ground fine,

the faint, ferrous taste of “not enough.”

It sits like stone in my stomach,

sapping the sun from my smile,

slowing the song in my chest.

And I wonder—

as I always do—

why joy feels so thin,

why the day feels already doomed

before breakfast.

But tonight,

I will rise,

spill the sediment into the sink,

watch it whirl in a small silver storm,

and fill the cup fresh—

with the cool, clean water of mercy.

Because I have learned

that the mouth that swallows poison

is the same mouth

that can sing itself free.

***

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Setu, August 2025