Etcetra

There, now hold the black crayon
And draw a hackneyed gun, next to that boy
Good. And once you're done, little one
Pass it on to little Saira, she needs it
To cover her woman with the burqaah etcetra.

Oh, do not mind, do not mind.
It is just school, haha. I am the teacher.
We teach our students excellent things.
Only last month, one of our students
Finished the red chalk on the board,
Squeaking till the last bit, till he turned and
He said, "Finished." It was a good picture.
He made blood and acid etcetra.

We teach Maths also. Haha, not to girls.
Girls, we teach embroidery, womanly things.
Not Math, numbers are manly. They can't
Wrap their head around that, it doesn't help serve
Their husbands, and if they have to learn hisaab.
Their husbands teach, to sit at the shops etcetra.

Oh yes. We take care of your children. Sex. No no.
We do not talk of bad things. We talk of marriage.
Rape? No no. That is marriage only. No? Oh.
It is alright. You will be happy to know we teach
The girls dressing. We teach them to plead.
On the knees. That helps in rape. But we do not
Teach bad words such as sex.
Against tehzeeb etcetra.

So welcome to the school? Branch? So many. Haha.
India also. Pakistan also. Etcetra.

I PROMISE I WILL FINISH THE NOVEL THIS YEAR. AT LEAST THE INITIAL DRAFT. SO MANY IDEAS BUT MUST WRITE ON PAPER. Rant over. Kthxbye.

This is for You.

You, of the auburn hair
And the sordid brain-
And that little emboldened self
That hid behind so many masks
Of beauty and desire-
Of love and lies-
Of femininity and feminism.

Tell me- just this much-
Do our rum-soaked evenings
Full of laughter laced with ululating
Lullabies ever come to you
Lulling you in the selfsame labourless sleep?
And when sitting at the curb of the river
Of unhappiness, do you still feel a gentle pull
A tug, away from the despair?

And when he did whatever he did with
The conative phallus destroying your cognition
Does it also penetrate your interiors, upsetting
The ambience within? Still?
Won't there be a little space for me in those
Devastated nooks, where I can sit and echo
Into your insides, the azaan that you liked so well.

Or is it that, I also recall in the sunrise-
Or the sunset, is it, only a golden dash of yourself?
When all the murk, that flows down your body,
Bending upon your groin, only seems to scintillate to me?
And when I try to remember your name,  have I lost it
Somewhere, between a thought, and a memory?