Subscribe to our weekly newsletter

@
Story image

GetBengal received many poetry and short story entries from across the country. Though we felt honoured to have received so many entries, but we as a team had to choose a few that celebrates womanhood across the spectrum.

DrAmit Shankar Saha (1st)

I undress
as I write this.
There goes the last
thread from my body.
In the corners
of every room,
I shed a sigh
of missing girls,
who are supposed
to be long dead.
Between the furrows
of the fields
my eyes roam.
Greens become gray
far away.
Fertility consorts 
with the rich loam.
When it’s pitch dark
you can see us
amidst the ploughshares.
Patrols screech
at my naked borders,
search all my moans.
I beg for some shame.
When will I be home?

(Dr. Amit Shankar Saha is Assistant Professor, English, at Seacom Skills University and co-founder of Rhythm Divine Poets)

 

Sravani Singampalli (1st)

Every day I masquerade as somebody else,
I mask my sorrow by a brittle smile,
I wander like a river
among the rocks of silence.
There is a reason behind my pregnant silence,
There is pain in my vermilion heart,
Hopelessness flowing in my blue blood.
Still I say happiness is my crown!
I may not be like a clown
Whose mask is visible
But even a mask is masked by a mask!
I wear invisible masks every day,
My past is the son of incubus
In my lonely laughter,
Tears turned to ashes,
I remember my name.
But lost its rainbow home,
Some people can be found
Only in my memories,
Some things survive
Only in my dreams.
My pain is unseen,
My desires are unfulfilled,
My muffled sobs unheard.
I know expressing my emotions
Would not bring any change
I lost my loving husband
But for the well-being
Of my little children
I became a ‘Picasso of masked emotions’!

(Sravani is a published writer and poet from Andhra Pradesh pursuing doctor of pharmacy)

 

Jagari Mukherjee (2nd)

My unnatural abnormal womanhood
Smells and tastes like a Bloody Mary,
Spiked with rum. Always a buzz.
I don’t want to throw wedding rice.
And this makes me free
To validate me by only me.
My words are a tangy berry.
Why do you create a fuss?
Bloody Mary. Rum and ice.

My unnatural abnormal womanhood
Looks like a misty morning, cold
With a bonfire crackling. Always a nip.
I don’t want to throw wedding rice
And this makes me free
To validate me by only me.
My breathing is blue and bold.
Life is worth taking a sip.
Bloody Mary. Rum and ice.

(Jagari Mukherjee is a poet and freelance content writer who lives and breathes words)

 

Dr. Paromita Mukherjee Ojha  (2nd)

I am She
I am the eternal
I am Shiva and Shakti
Throbbing with vitality
I no longer wish to hide my nubile body!
I revel in my radiance,
I no longer will hide my incandescence
Man – For ages you have smothered my essence
Now you will learn to revere my radiance
You will celebrate my voluptuous curves
You can no more my comeliness bound
My robes now remain seamless, fetterless, spotless.

I am She,
I am Durga and Kali,
Stars are buried within me.
Every vein in my body throbs with fire,
Ready to burn a hole in any marauding skin.
I am the daughter of Sun and Moon,
No more an appendage to He,
My buried rage of centuries has freed me
I am a goddess reborn- I am She.

(Paromita Mukherjee is a facilitator by profession, blogger by choice and an orator by chance)


Jayashree Bhattacharya  (3rd) 

Tied in a wedlock,
She trusted him with all her heart.
But in a million pieces, he shattered it apart.
Instead of two attached souls,
Towards a lifelong freedom and companionship
She was a prisoner.
The walls choking her soul,
Crushing her spirit.
Deprived of dreams and wishes, of love and respect,
Deprived of her identity, of her very existence,
She ached to meet her death.
Deprived of her talent and thoughts, 
her voice and her space, 
Deprived even of her solitude.
She yearned for the sweet release of death.
Yet, insulted, injured and burnt,
She will survive the fire.
For the Phoenix in her will rise,
From the ashes of shattered dreams and broken soul.
And stronger and wiser will she carve her path,
Burning bright.

((Jayashree Bhattacharjee is a blogger, ex-senior Lecturer, Education Dept. Durgapur Steel Plant and Ex Visiting Faculty, NIT, Durgapur)

 

Ipsita Ganguli (3rd)

Woman ~ You are a thousand splendoured sun.
Creator, Nurturer, Lover, Mother, Daughter, Giver. 
You then embrace it all as the ultimate Diva!

But You let them worship you and abuse you, 
Play along with them laughing out loud as you 
Play Sheela,Munni, to their tangdi kebab... 

You let them measure your breasts, hips, waist; So busy you are, as you play Venus, Aphrodite and Rati,
For your temporary gains.

Woman~Give me ‘The Real,’
Give me your scars, pain and desires
Give me your good solids arms,
That will hold sons and daughters of the earth in equal embrace. 
Rise Woman, into the realms of ‘who you are,’
So much more beautiful than what is visible to the naked eye.
That wishes to seek glory in Objects rather than the Real.

(Ipsita Ganguli is a People’s Person and a student of myriad experiences that life holds out)

 

Ashish Kumar Pathak

She is easier than others, 
her chat prettier,
company works as balm.
Even times of chaos turn clumsy and weak.
Even her ringtones,
strike a deep unequal chord.
Shows no prejudiceor impatience,
Just true and bru sense,
interjecting at right moments
right responses, right stories.
Holding back verdicts, criticismsor disapprovals. 
Listening to you sympathetically,
sometimes questioning you.
Very lovely,giving positive spin
to everything, thick or thin.
Focussing on silver linings
instead of dark clouds. 
Providing solutions or inspiration
away from suffocation.
Allowing us to talkand walk
in unobtrusive fashionwithout aberration.
Willing to investtime, energy and effort
in you. Its high time you knew
the women closest to you. 

(Ashish Kumar Pathak is a teacher posted at Munger district of Bihar and has featured in many Indian and Asian anthologies)

 

Madhu Jaiswal

Women the epitome of Shakti, worshipped as Devi Kali and Durga.
Yet looked down upon and made to feel the subordinate gender amongst two.
She coherently seeks the wellness of whomever she adores.
Yet remain unworthy, unethical synchronization of masses.
Some caressing moment of blissful togetherness,
of her loved one is what she desires.
But in return she gets that leads her soul
deprived and haywire.
She plays nonstop various roles.
At a time, a dotting daughter.
At a time, a loving wife.
At a time, a caring mother.
At a time, a mystic lover.
She’s the one who looks after all the chores.
Yet her entity mostly lays in abhor.
She’s the axis around which the family revolves.
With her endurances, everyone around evolves.
Without her existence mankind won’t be able to survive.
Let’s respect thy woman 
who have been sustaining since long and living on brim.

 

 

Shyamal Mukhopadhyay

Those who forget history condemned to repeat
Tales of women in torment daily media highlight:
In ancient times an unwed Jabala, stood firm,
Withholding name of the father to son Satyakam.
Ages later,in her youth, a queenmother Kunti,
Tempted to forego her virginity,
Still the society held her epitome of purity.
Nobody raised doubt about her chastity.
When humiliated,Draupadi cried in objection
How her privacy abashed during menstruation,
The royal court of the Kauravas remained forlorn
Facing lone woman’s sharp reprobation.
Strolling time erased saga of women eminence,
Modern age encrypting regressive male dominance,
Her modesty now outraged in open brutally.
Men feel hedonistic to elaborate cryptically:
If today’s Durga in fury not becoming annihilator
Possibly inside her lies a mother, a creator.

(Shyamal Mukhopadhyay is a freelance intruder in creative writing space)