And when I’d hear footsteps outside my room, firm and undeniably masculine,
I’d clamp my hands over my mouth, and not let even an N O escape,
Much less a whole lot of N O N S E N S E ,
Because listen, child, women are meant to be seen, not heard,
And you should not be seen either,
Except, of course, to cater to our whims and fancies.
You trapped me concrete and loathing, father, to protect me from the sun, but what good did it do, when your vile blood flowed through my veins, as everlasting as death.
I am not made of chocolate, mother, milk won’t make me go from Lindt to Cadbury.
Nor can I change color, to suit myself to what I touch.
And, oh sweet grandma, how delusional you are.
I am the diamond you speak of, hidden beneath obsidian yet rare charcoal dust,
Like black silk covering a masterpiece.
After over a decade of comparisons to blackboards, catty compliments, disguising clothes, cringing boyfriends and irked family members, I am tired.
I am tired and sick of your double standards, of your overwhelming patriarchy, of your hypocritical notions, of your irrational fascinations, of your fixation with firangs, of your belief that Fair is Lovely, but Dark is Ugly.
I am sick of you, society.
I’ve set fire to my concealing garb, to my fairness creams, to my packets of bleach, to myLakme Absolute White Intense Skin Cover, to the four walls I called a home.
I am not what you want me to be,
I cannot be what you want me to be.
I am Kali,
Hair flying, eyes fiery, itching to put you bigots in your damn place.
I am Kali,
Ingenious, bold, fierce, enchanting, unashamedly sensual, a woman.
I am Kali,
In the most literal and metaphorical sense of that word.
I am Kali,
And I refuse to be pushed onto my knees.
I refuse to ingest the poisonous beliefs and norms you shove down my throat.
I refuse to shape the chaos I am, cut off its corners, smoothen its edges, and fit it into the vanilla box you have prepared for me.
I refuse to believe that ebony is not the fairest of them all.
I am Kali,
And I refuse to be put down.
Don’t you dare put me down.
Kainaat Bhaskar is 17 years old, lives in Pune, and has an intense affinity for cats, chocolate, Salman Rushdie and Indie Rock.
I organize play dates for my children. They’re friendships remind me of when I was younger when Fridays were consistently set aside for my friends. Now, it seems play is indeed meant for childhood and work is for aging adults. We often can’t find time for ourselves, let alone our friends, who are busy working mothers like ourselves. Or we moved into unreachable corners of this globe, far away from any means of physical communication. It’s fair to say, it’s hard to stay close to friends like when we were in college. Nowadays, it’s easier to travel, but more difficult to bond with others. “My Friend” asserts that we should not end let our friendships fall by the wayside. Even with physical distance and conflicting schedules, we keep our friendships close with kind words on phone calls, regular FaceTime calls, or even encouraging social media comments. Friendship doesn’t end once we become adults.
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
“Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a meditation on the new moon and guilt. I wrote it when I was living in Dallas and was driving back from a dusk prayer. The new moon terrified me on that drive. I was diseased by the knowledge that my partner, at the time, had seen the worst parts of me. There’s immense shame in this piece—it seized my self-image. If the moon could become brand new, then I could start over.
I often ponder on the moon’s reflective nature and pairs of eyes. I’m hyper-fixated on how I am seen by others. Unfortunately, the brilliance of seeing your reflection in another person leads to negativity. After all, those who are too keen on their own reflection are the same people who suffer from it. It is possible to use shame to fuel one’s retribution and personal growth, without becoming consumed by it.
We can look to Shah Rukh Khan succumbing to alcoholism in his own sorrow and then later imbibing his sadness in Chandramukhi. “Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a lesson for us: Don’t be Shah Rukh Khan in Devdas, instead embody pre-incarnation Shah Rukh Khan in Om Shanti Om!
Sometimes when the moon abandons the sky, I wonder if I drove her away.
If she comes back, will she be the same? How I wish she would come back new, truly new! That way she’d have no memory of the sin I’ve confessed to her. You noxious insect. Sin-loving, ego-imbibing pest. You are no monster, for at least a monster has ideology, it sins with purpose. You sin just to chase ignominy.
But the moon won’t say that, she never does. She’ll just leave the sky and return days later, slowly. And I’ll wonder if she’s new, perhaps she won’t remember my past confessions. What does it matter? Were the moon replaced with one from a different god, I’d drive her away, too.
NAKED: The Honest Musings of 2 Brown Women was born in the autumn of 2018, when Mimi Mutesa and Selvi M. Bunce began sharing their poetry collections. It was scary, beautiful, and terrifying when they decided to trust each other with their most intimate thoughts. Not only did they feel relieved after doing so, but Selvi and Mimi also felt more seen as women of color. They embarked on their publication journey, so others may feel as seen as they did on that fateful autumn.
“Ingrown Hair” deals with the themes of societal and family pressures that are reflected throughout NAKED. Mimi and Selvi have always written for themselves. They see poetry as an outlet, and their poems exemplify their personal frustration and vulnerability. “Ingrown Hair” speaks to Selvi’s experience with the societal pressures of South Asian women, such as getting married, being a good wife, becoming a good mother, and leading a certain kind of life.
There is something strange beneath my skin
telling me to build a house,
make a home,
mother children.
I am not sure how to reconcile it.
My mother was strong
and a mother after all.
My philosophy has been to spend my time
on myself and the world.
I have always thought
I could simply address the thing under my skin
when it finally crawled out.
But when my family starts guessing
who will get married first, and my father
has been saving wedding money for years,
I begin to wonder
if I will have to pluck it out.
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
Kainaat Bhaskar is 17 years old, lives in Pune, and has an intense affinity for cats, chocolate, Salman Rushdie and Indie Rock.
