barefaced life

Photo by Brett Sayles on

A morbid longing has been compelling me to plumb the depth of marshes, and morass settled in the sand of time. A glimpse of the lass eking out living under the corrugated tin roof. That seamstress worsted by despair whose husband lives in another town, with another woman. Presumably, she is trying to keep the wolf from the door. The matron who left for the monastery and did not succumb to the ennui that stalked her home. Vociferous voices and thousands of hands clasping candles. A woman twiddling her thumbs, dithering over her career, women in politics and on the silver screen enfolded in a fusillade of questions, putting on a brave face. And men, of another gender, another race savouring tales on the edge of their lips. Clamorous nights fumbling for sleep and lonely feet slackening off. Slaughterhouses of skin colour, gender and nationality. I am not very keen on pulling them up and bring them to heel. Only taking my pick from them. I cannot tell their tears apart. Lately, a creeper peeked out of the fissure that never sat comfortably with me and it’s enough for the day.

Published by Smita Ray

Smita Ray is a mother of two lovely kids and hails from the northeastern town of India Gorakhpur. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures with her kids.

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