She stands over there a
widow,
Aloof, like a barren
meadow,
Having lost her stand
and beauty,
And is flung to
melancholy.
With the loss of solid
mountain,
Went away the placid
fountain,
Leaving abrupt her cup
empty
Of love and sweet, once
aplenty.
Her presence is now a
bad omen.
Her sari, the rainbow,
turned white.
She went graceless lest
she must excite.
Is she lust-less, to be
sexless?
Ere wedding, was there
she alone;
Even now, as a widow,
she’s alone.
Once a solitary mansion,
Now she is a lonely
grave.
She is set to lament and
mourn
Ever-long, without a
happy end,
Though in no way can it
lighten
The loss of her pair.
Why, then, to pretend?
Which widow, save
corrupt one, unwept
Over the fate to which
she was put,
With choked lust having
no outlet,
Other than duress she
went through?
Youth in prime, charm is
still unshed.
Lust to brim, thirst is
still unfed.
Hard would be she to
stay the wicked
Were she destined to
never re-wed.
Women’s eyes upon her
conduct,
Men’s spicy eyes upon
her neglects,
If she is to rebel, men
will spurn;
If she is to yield, men
will rush.
There comes spring to
trees, when leaf-less.
Also comes monsoon to
grass, when list-less.
None comes to her, who
went mate-less,
And was thrown an
orphan, name-less.
When a pot is lost
another is bought.
When a hut is lost one
more is built.
While a mate is lost no
one is sought
To tender her lust,
otherwise a beast.
A widow is not a
left-over,
As a poem read is not
leftover.
A portrait is fresh to
everyone.
A mother’s breast is
alike to her next child.
She is unlike the one as
had deserted
Her husband, as
furtively flirted,
Or as had her child by
him fostered:
A lived villa, not a
spit apple.
Over years virgins
married widowers.
Without tears they lived
in fervour.
For her cheers, let her
get the same favour
from a man of choice to
restore her flavour.
No animals keep their
spouses in widowhood.
Why is, then, this
invention on womanhood?
She better be sanctified
before having erred
So that she could lead a
life, unblurred.
Let her wed, anew,
‘as though a rose shut
and be a bud, again’
11.11.97, Palakkad
