Soulmates finish each other’s sentences. Women who understand each other’s pain complete each other’s poetry.
The Bitch by Kanishka Ramchandani
She was waiting,
has been waiting for long.
Her gnawed fingernail patience depleting,
urging her to act.
She holding on a little more, waiting.
You could see it in her eyes,
the ‘I’m biding my time’ look,
Between flashes of terror and horror,
there was the waiting.
As she waited, she mended herself.
Bought a concealer from Sephora.
Flinched a little as the sales girl
tested it on the purple patch under her eye.
She got a haircut, a bold fringe
To hide the cut on her forehead
where the beer bottle had landed.
Pulled out a full-sleeved dress.
Sweat covered her arms and thighs,
strewn with blue-black bruises.
She wished the ink was red,
that’s the colour she identified with.
But black will do just as well, she thought,
and added another zero to her alimony amount.
The wait was over.
the cut at the corner of her lip started to bleed.
The Lover by Priya Chaphekar
I kissed the bitch’s forehead
As she slept all curled up
Like a baby in the womb
When was the last time she had slept
Dreaming about rainbows
He’d deprived her of that heightened pleasure
Just pounded her and rolled over
As she held his disconcerting nectar within
She teetered in her sleep
“He’s there, right there,” she pointed
At the nothingness of the night
“No, he isn’t. He will never,”
I swept her bold fringe
Caressing the mark on her forehead
Holding her close
Feeling her warm, trembling breath
Between my breasts
I undressed her gingerly
And smoothened her bruises
With my healing fingers
That night she set herself free
Like the sweet honey
That ran down her thighs
The drought was over
It was the advent of
The season of love