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ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
BASANTA KUMAR KAR
Outcast
I cannot reconcile trauma,
sex, sleepless nights, sleeping partners
blood scar violence to a virgin.
Coaxing and cajoling
husbands, clients and customers
flesh and power the motive nurtured
transmitting death and disease they
depart.
tired and exhausted,
I trade and profess, ethics of safe sex.
Blue visages listed in albums and
catalogues
I am outcast.
Sellers increase, buyers bargain
clients observe swollen eyes
dry energy, smile deficiency syndrome
body can no longer parade
the most intimidating culture.
Children’s destitution, death
premonition,
imperil each sexual act
can no longer satisfy the needs of the
flesh
clients lose interest
I reduce rate, branded old fashioned.
I navigate risk after risk
envy at other’s love bonding
earn to tradeoff
preferring children’s nutrition to my
prescription.
I am a mother.
I suppress and hide the scars
and smile at children and customers
anti- retroviral drug provides the stimuli
I cherish to paint my lost love,
once, before the grave
on the body, the canvass.
(This is Manju’s traumatic life, a 30 year
old women. She lives in an urban slum,
Kalandhar Colony in Delhi. She got into
sex work after losing her husband two
years back. She has to support herself
and her four children. The youngest child
being 1.5 years old.)
I cannot reconcile trauma,
sex, sleepless nights, sleeping partners
blood scar violence to a virgin.
Coaxing and cajoling
husbands, clients and customers
flesh and power the motive nurtured
transmitting death and disease they
depart.
tired and exhausted,
I trade and profess, ethics of safe sex.
Blue visages listed in albums and
catalogues
I am outcast.
Sellers increase, buyers bargain
clients observe swollen eyes
dry energy, smile deficiency syndrome
body can no longer parade
the most intimidating culture.
Children’s destitution, death
premonition,
imperil each sexual act
can no longer satisfy the needs of the
flesh
clients lose interest
I reduce rate, branded old fashioned.
I navigate risk after risk
envy at other’s love bonding
earn to tradeoff
preferring children’s nutrition to my
prescription.
I am a mother.
I suppress and hide the scars
and smile at children and customers
anti- retroviral drug provides the stimuli
I cherish to paint my lost love,
once, before the grave
on the body, the canvass.
(This is Manju’s traumatic life, a 30 year
old women. She lives in an urban slum,
Kalandhar Colony in Delhi. She got into
sex work after losing her husband two
years back. She has to support herself
and her four children. The youngest child
being 1.5 years old.)
Too late
I am fourteen, he is fifteen
skins have played truant, lives have
been shaken
time has taken its flesh
too late for a denial
tie knot gratifying their wish and will.
Lonely habitat, solitary life
too late our sweet love games
no more respite, a new face begets.
I see frail, feeble
people say, stunted a low birth
weight.
People say she needs company
new face to arrive - a male child
too late to repent.
I see others colourful
one day she would rise beyond the
kitchen.
Strange but true, this malnutrition
an intra-generation cycle.
(This is the story of Ahimat Bai a tribal
woman of 17 years who is
malnourished and the mother of a
Grade III malnourished girl child. She
is from village Tumrikasa, Manpur
block of Rajnandgaon district,
Chhattisgarh India).
I am fourteen, he is fifteen
skins have played truant, lives have
been shaken
time has taken its flesh
too late for a denial
tie knot gratifying their wish and will.
Lonely habitat, solitary life
too late our sweet love games
no more respite, a new face begets.
I see frail, feeble
people say, stunted a low birth
weight.
People say she needs company
new face to arrive - a male child
too late to repent.
I see others colourful
one day she would rise beyond the
kitchen.
Strange but true, this malnutrition
an intra-generation cycle.
(This is the story of Ahimat Bai a tribal
woman of 17 years who is
malnourished and the mother of a
Grade III malnourished girl child. She
is from village Tumrikasa, Manpur
block of Rajnandgaon district,
Chhattisgarh India).
Flame
Swaying into mysterious alleys of lost
old days
the valleys fraught into timeless faith
the beauty of Himalayas
weave a divine musical magic
the flowing petals in a snow fed water
create a vocabulary that heals.
Budding oak purple white chestnut
a drive, exhilarating swimming in the
lakes
luscious berries concealed in grooves
a mad rush to juices of rhododendron
tourists taste every inch of the moment
I taste the sounds of silence
tying a knot with leafs of stem.
The old leafs fall new leafs bud
bending the cord spinal
muscle in feet at times unfamiliar to soil
with a soft and tinted touch
I pluck the leaf younger greener
for drinks to keep someone else body
warm.
Monsoon permeates a novel stillness
the roaring wind
sky slit with purple light
some shriek, some manage to hide
all realize their size
for me a call of the tide in appetite
build a bond with elements of fury
with the same bending
ignoring leech sucking the red fluids.
The life partner
takes a pleasure in white-red wine
with an intriguing peace
siblings bounce pebbles off surface
I too prune, cut the leaf into size.
Sun sets- a re-beginning to pilgrim’s
progress
obeisance to Naini
hymns and chanting deepens rhythmic
breathing
I get a call home coming
dry leafs of pine an easy prey of fire
some relax with wilds of bonfire
he burns to live a life now
muscle swings, shrinks
beats in the bosom vibrates
squeezes wrinkle in the skin
music of cuckoo echoes in five tunes
I too extinguish
dispose to divinity in grief.
(This is the story of 40 year old Mrs Neeta
Bisht who is the mother of 3 children. She
works as a labourer in a tea garden of
Nainital, Uttarakhand, India)
Swaying into mysterious alleys of lost
old days
the valleys fraught into timeless faith
the beauty of Himalayas
weave a divine musical magic
the flowing petals in a snow fed water
create a vocabulary that heals.
Budding oak purple white chestnut
a drive, exhilarating swimming in the
lakes
luscious berries concealed in grooves
a mad rush to juices of rhododendron
tourists taste every inch of the moment
I taste the sounds of silence
tying a knot with leafs of stem.
The old leafs fall new leafs bud
bending the cord spinal
muscle in feet at times unfamiliar to soil
with a soft and tinted touch
I pluck the leaf younger greener
for drinks to keep someone else body
warm.
Monsoon permeates a novel stillness
the roaring wind
sky slit with purple light
some shriek, some manage to hide
all realize their size
for me a call of the tide in appetite
build a bond with elements of fury
with the same bending
ignoring leech sucking the red fluids.
The life partner
takes a pleasure in white-red wine
with an intriguing peace
siblings bounce pebbles off surface
I too prune, cut the leaf into size.
Sun sets- a re-beginning to pilgrim’s
progress
obeisance to Naini
hymns and chanting deepens rhythmic
breathing
I get a call home coming
dry leafs of pine an easy prey of fire
some relax with wilds of bonfire
he burns to live a life now
muscle swings, shrinks
beats in the bosom vibrates
squeezes wrinkle in the skin
music of cuckoo echoes in five tunes
I too extinguish
dispose to divinity in grief.
(This is the story of 40 year old Mrs Neeta
Bisht who is the mother of 3 children. She
works as a labourer in a tea garden of
Nainital, Uttarakhand, India)
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