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Her rapist stood in her brother’s, cousin’s, uncle’s or father’s skin. Tired or angry, she couldn’t refrain from her husband’s advances, for they are meant to be given in.
Who am I? A granddaughter? A daughter? A mother? What is my identity?
Marriage advertised: every household in India wants a bride who is convent educated, fair kind, and maybe comes with some gold!
My mother’s words challenged my refusal,“What is wrong with the boy?” True, there was nothing wrong in him. Nothing wrong with me, either.
Poem for young women. A new bride writes to her mother in her diary, "Dear mum, I’m now in my new home"
Poem: Hiatus - Sailing through the wild territories, yearning to survive each day with ease, I embrace the cruel kindness and move on in the pursuit of an alchemy of my own.
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