A shady deal

parul never thought in her wildest dreams that witches are real. Let alone how persistent they could be. It was a moment of desperation when she made the deal. But now, in her dimly lit kitchen, Labonyo, the witch, was nursing a glass of goat milk and staring at her with judgemental eyes that felt like it was piercing her soul.

Parul was sixteen, homeless, living off scraps from local shops, and sleeping in benches in bus stops. She wanted to just live and no payment was too high. So when the witch asked for her firstborn in exchange for her getting to live a life she wanted, she agreed without hesitation. She wasn’t thinking of having a child in the first place. Parul saw love as a tool for patriarchy designed to control women. And as a self-made women, being in love felt like a bigger betrayal than cheating a centuries old witch out of a deal. She thought this as a bad credit card debt. She just never realised out of her naiveté that credit card companies also have hoodlums they call the debt collectors, and at this point, Labonyo was feeling less like a witch and more like a debt collector doing a home visit.

“Parul, were you always planning to cheat me out of our deal?” Labonyo’s words felt calculated. Parul wasn’t expecting a direct question like this. She fumbled and couldn’t come up with an answer.

“What is given, can be taken away” Labonyo added serenely, “All your progress can go away instantly, and you won’t be sixteen again either.”

“I didn’t mean to, I was just…” was all Parul could master before Labonyo cut her off.

“I know what you’re gonna say, ‘Oh i never wanted to fall in love, I can never have kids’ — I knew that. Your firstborn doesn’t have to be biological. Just someone who see you as a mother. All this time, and you still don’t think how much power our choices hold.” Labonyo took a big sip from her glass of milk.

“How can I adopt without being married? This is India, trans girls like us aren’t allowed to adopt” Parul mumbled.

“That seems like a you problem, Parul” Labonyo interjected. “You figure that shit out. I need my payment. I have been nothing but generous to you, but I simply can’t keep providing free service, can I?”

“I’m not asking you to provide free service…” Parul started to speak.

“Bitch, please, you were totally planning to default on the debt, I have lived for over five hundred years, I have seen stupid people like you who thinks they can scam a witch” Labonyo was not taking any excuses today.

“Okay fine, just help me get a date then, and I promise I will get an adoption process going as soon as i’m married and give you the baby when they turn seven, as promised” Parul begged.

“Your dating life is none of my business and no, I can’t keep helping you without anything in return. My other coven members are starting rumours and they are not good for my business.” Labonyo was dismissive as she took a bigger sip from the glass. She seemed distracted.

“Not help, just tips.” Parul was desperate. “You want this solved fast? Me too.” Parul took a pause. She was calculating her next words very carefully. “Not to self-victimise, but your debt calls aren’t nice. I’d really like if you didn’t just teleported in the middle of my kitchen any time you please. It’s unsettling”

“Again, not my problem” Labonyo seemed a bit irritated.

“You are also saying people are talking about how you can’t collect a debt.”

“Who is saying that? I have a perfect collection score” Labonyo seemed very agitated now.

“You just said your coven is saying stuff”

“That’s none of your business, and for your information, that’s not what they are saying. They’re just saying that I have been…” Labonyo bit her tongue in the middle of the sentence. “You don’t have to worry about what they are saying. This doesn’t concern you. You should only be worried about your debt to me.” Labonyo suddenly was very focused on her glass of milk.

“That’s what I’m saying” Parul was confused at the tone of Labonyo, but she was also seeing a chance she didn’t see before. “You are a very experienced woman, I just want tips on how to be a proper woman. You know I didn’t grow up socialising as one. you know, girls help each other.”

Labonyo didn’t say anything back. Parul continued, “Just help me be more feminine, help me with dating, if i get an adoption going in a year, you can be assured of my payment, and the rumours about you will also stop. It is a win-win for us”

“Don’t think I do not see what you are trying to do, I’m not stupid” Labonyo was surprisingly calm. “But yes, I do think this might be the best solution for me too.” She continued. “I will give you tips, but one year. If you are not engaged within a year, all bets are off”

And with that Labonyo teleported with a crack and without a goodbye. Parul heaved a sigh of relief. How in the world witches are real and why do they need your firstborn? Parul made a mental note to ask this to Labonyo the next time around.

Well, people who know me, knows that I swear by Tartan Noirs. So when I first heard that Val Mcbride’s epynomus character Karen Pirie was coming to the TV in 2022, I was over the moon.

Shetland had been one of my favourite recommendations for people getting into the genre, but after Karen Pirie’s explosive first season, I can say that Shetland has a very good competition now.

Karen Pirie is one of the main female crime solving characters created by the Modern Queen of Crime Val McDermid. I really like her writing because she incorporates feminist and queer themes from her lived experiences of being a radical feminist and a lesbian. So more often than not, her characters operates under the extra pressure of optics and patriarchy.

Karen Pirie is no different, her office nickname is Box Ticker, because the boys club in the police station considers her a dei hire. To be honest, In the first season she gets the job because she is a woman, and she is picked because the actual murdered, who is in a higher position in the police force, never really thought she could be up to the job.

I think it is safe to say that the first season of Karen Pirie exceeded all expectations so much so that, other streaming services scrambled to make their own version of cold case procedurals as soon as possible. Netflix came out with Department Q with Matthew Goode, and Prime literally cancelled Bosch: Legacy to give more value to their similar show Ballard with Maggie Q.

I was kinda sceptical with the second season of Karen Pirie to be honest. But this month I had been a bit ill, so I found that a good excuse to binge the whole of Season 2 in one go. It is again a three episode season with one and half hour episodes. And it retains the same structure of going back and forth in the past to the present.

Unlike last season, the victim this time is not a working class woman. It is about an heiress of one of the biggest oil baron of Scotland. Catriona Grant. James Cosmo, who you might know as ser Joer Mormont from Game of Thrones or as Farder Coram from His Dark Materials plays the role of the Grant family Patriarch with utmost believability. He has been so good that our blunt to a fault detective couldnt figure out what he could have been hiding.

This season was a lot more predictable, as the series progresses you could spot some of the chinks in the armour, and guess which direction the story is going. Yet, the ending will still surprise you.

This case opens up after a surprisingly well preserved dead body is found in an abondoned quarry. That man was in possession of Catriona’s car keys, which he used to kidnap her. A kidnapping that happened 40 years ago, in 1984. Karen did find out eventually that Catriona was already in on it on the kidnapping and asking for the ransom, but eventually they also find the dead body of hers as well, throwing all speculations out of the window.

This season is more about class war than anything else. The Grant family has secrets, and they would go to any lengths to keep them from coming out. It doesn’t also hurt that they have all the resources and the money to undercut the detectives and sabotage the investigations. They did it last time, and tried really hard this time as well. However, they did love their daughter and grandson, and would not have harmed them either. Grant’s businesses put multiple miners out of work, so it could have been about a revenge from the unionising miners as well, or could be the crime family that is known for their ruthlessness in Scotland.

I really like scottish productions. their cinematography is very beautiful and having picturesque small towns seem like an added bonus. There are a lot of new actors who I do not know, and that is honestly refreshing. Chris Jenks as Mint, or Karen’s new puppy is actually a very lovable himbo.

I also need to point out that when most american procedurals are basically copaganda, british shows often take the route to show how much corruption there is in the police force. Sure, Karen Pirie is not as dark and heartbreaking like Red Riding, or as hellbent against corruption as Line of Duty (fuck the last season), but it still shows the cracks quite clearly. However I do not like the fact that the show pushes one bad apple rhetoric. However, I guess I can look the other way since their portrayal of systemic racism in scotland is quite realistic.

Val wrote 8 novels about Karen, so I guess we can expect six more seasons to come. I do not mind waiting for couple years for new seasons, and I do think the breaks help a lot. I hope the show is renewed again.

I also like the politics of Val. Queerness in her writings exist as a matter of fact, and generally has no bearing on the story. Which is extremely refreshing in the claustrophobic queer tv show genre where everything rotates around it. Queer people are more than their sexuality, and I’m really glad the show stays true to the source material.

I do recommend you watch Karen Pirie. It doesn’t treat the audience as stupid, and often it shows the audience a lot more context about the characters than the detective without divulging any extra details. That is extremely hard to do and the show-runners deserve praise for executing that flawlessly. If you have liked procedurals like Shetland or Broadchurch, you’ll feel at home with Karen Pirie.

Oh I’m sure you had been hungry, I mean who hasn’t? To be honest, I wanted to add so before hungry; I needed to get some things off my chest.

Have you ever been so hungry, That the food you hated so much Felt like the best thing in the world? It stopped making your stomach lurch.

Have you ever been so hungry, That it just made you nauseated? But you couldn’t really puke, And tore your throat instead!

Have you ever been so hungry, Neither coffee nor nicotine could douse it? You curse any and all gods, For giving you an appetite

Have you ever been so hungry, That your mouth got progressively bitter? From you bile; and all you could do Was to make your belt tighter.

Have you ever been so hungry, That you punched yourself in the gut? And then you’re still hungry but also in pain? Yeah, that move wasn’t smart.

Have you ever been so hungry, That you just went to sleep? Hoping not to wake up tomorrow Because this life? it doesn’t come cheap.

Have you ever been so hungry, That you traded your body for a meal? It’s not a real choice, if that’s the only option! IDK about others, but this is what i feel.

Have you ever been so hungry, That you had to crawl back and beg To your abusers? undoing every progress; And that knocked you down another peg?

What do you know of starvation? Do you even know how to cook? Who are you to preach about shit, When all your dialogues come from a book?

You cal me brave, powerful even, But also an uncouth ticking time bomb. I may not have the means as you, But you’ll never know where I’m coming from!

where is the trans movement?

Nothing is universal, but some trends are visible: NGOs are scared. Their funds are drying up or they know will dry up. Their ideas dried up some time back. They are trying to squeeze the dried up ideas to get some more juice (Rupees) out of funders. NGO leaders keep repeating that the community is not interested, not invested, as justification to not do anything other than what they have already been doing. They are literally having to bribe the community to attend their events. Events are mostly designed to be photo-ops that can be used to seduce funders. Learning, growing, being, becoming, these are hardly part of these workshops, trainings, and events.

The community is left in a lurch while agendas lacking courage are debated ad nauseam in meetings and conferences. The public is neither consulted nor informed.

We need a different style of movement. One that is distributed, leaderless, employs wide range of tactics, connects a wide range of ideas and demands beyond identity politics. We need movements – plural – in street corners, living rooms, offices, neighbourhoods. We deserve unruled movements. And no one else will give them to us.

not really feeling artsy anymore

What will a writer do when they lose all their words?

For a writer losing all of their words is like plucking all of a child's favourite toys. And you'll see a child cry and throw a tantrum and roll over the floor to get the toys back

But a writer? Specifically this writer that we're talking about, she just shuts herself down. Writing in a cubicle surrounded by white walls and selling lies did this to her.

A black cloudy figure often loom over her shoulders. She felt it's presence everytime she opened her notebook to write. It lurked on her even when she had something decent to write about at work. For they prefer the machine’s version over a human's. For there is nothing real or romantic about marketing useless things. For she's suddenly so scared of the mistakes within her words. The black clouds continued to loom over her. Sucked all the colours of her notebook, her quill, her papers. And then finally her. She sits alone now, by her favourite tree trying to bring back the words that once she didn't have to force it out. She used to write like she's about to be breathless if she doesn't note it down. Like the words were her anchor to hold on to when life crashed merciless waves at her. Now she writes and goes back to her words and feels shitty at how less it all feels. How it doesn't satisfy her anymore. The feeling of not owning anything she writes cuz all of her words are merely prompts for AI to eat up and spit out baseless words that are more likely to get a conversion.

She wants everything back. She wants to go back to hating her parents and not empathising with them just so she can muster up a write up about how horrible they actually are. She wants the romance in it back. She wants to fire back in her words. She wants to look up at the sky and think of poems on the spot like she always does. She wants the music back, the kind that had her up at 1am and write about it.

Until then she'll have the stormy black clouds as her companion. For it has to rain someday.

Why does the queer community hate bisexuals, nonbinary people, and polyamorous people?

Before I proceed I should mention that my observations and conclusions are all anecdotal in nature based on my lived experience, and is in no way empiric. I am writing this piece to start conversations.

I was in a relationship with a trans man for almost 3 years. We bonded well and were compatible. But during this time both of us realised that we were polyamorous, and confided that to each other. I wasn't romantically interested in anyone except for him at that time despite being polyamorous, and I told him the same. We gave each other consent to date other people as well, given if we have a clear conversation about it first.

A month after this conversation, he broke up with me over text. Our mutual friends tell me that he has been dating another man for a while, and the other person was a better partner for him than I could ever be. I was devastated.

Unfortunately, I am not the only one who went through this. Many of my friends have been cheated on, with their then partners using polyamory or open relationships as an excuse to betray the trust of their partners.

As a polyamorous person, I know this isn't polyamory. This is lying, this is cheating, this betrayal. Polyamory is nothing but a flimsy shield. But my friends, who are monogamous, do not know that. They think that polyamorous people are liars who are hypersexual and won't hesitate to break hearts just to get their sexual fix. So my friends and other queer people develop a disdain of polyamorous people based on their negative experiences.

On top of that, some unethical polyamory practitioners treat minorities as a trophy, a game achievement. They become chasers for trans women and men and caste and religious minorities, approaching them with ideas of roleplay the person isn't comfortable with. The disdain grows.

Similary, some monosexual people hate bisexuals. They associate bisexuality with promiscuity and lying behaviour, because their bisexual partner cheated on them with a person of a different gender.

From the past discussions it should be evident that queer people are also prone to biases about fellow members of the community based on anecdotes. The same is for how some people think of nonbinary people.

India has been home of many identities that exist beyond the binary. On top of that, due to imposition by the state, some trans women and men consider themselves to be a “third gender”; and they can become fully a woman/ a man by undergoing bottom surgery and HRT. But, describing one's gender as “nonbinary” is relatively modern and confined to urban middle class queer circles. A lot of working class trans people feel betrayed when they see UC middle class nonbinary individuals being celebrated for their transness even though they haven't done any meaningful work to uplift the members who are in the grassroots. This betrayal develops into bias, that the people who call themselves nonbinary are just calling themselves trans for social clout, they aren't “real trannies”. And it doesn't help that some nonbinary individuals use their assigned gender at birth to defend themselves from valid criticism from trans women. They, intentionally or not, play into gender essentialism; by potraying themselves to be inherently “soft and pure” for being AFAB, and making AMAB individuals to be inherently “violent”.

It should be clear that these biases are made by observing people who are using their marginalized identity as a shield to absolve themselves of their wrongdoings. It's not the fault of the identity, its the fault of the person. As a collective we need to do better by protecting the ones who are the most at risk and asking for accountabilty from the ones who hurt us.

একুন ইউএসএ তে ট্রান্স মানুষ রা বেশ কস্টে আছে। নোটুন নিয়ম বেরোচে, রাজ্য সরকার থেকে আর কেন্দ্রীয় সরকার থেকে কি ওদের কে ওই বাথরুম ই ব্যবহার করতে হবে জেতা ওদের জোনমোগাতো লিঙ্গো সাথে মেল খায়ে। ট্রান্স মেয়ে রা স্কুল কলেজ এ খেলাধুলা এ অননো মেই দের সাথে খেলতে পারবে না।

আর একতা কি ট্রান্স মানুষ রা জোখুন পাসপোর্ট নবায়ন বা ভিসা জননো পাসপোর্ট জমা করচে, ওদের পাসপোর্ট জাপ্টো কোরা হবে, ফেরোদ পাছে না।

আমড়া থেকে টিজি কার্ড উদযাপন করচি। কিন্টু, ইউএসএ এর অস্থিরতা দেখে কি আমাদের ভাবা কথা না: সরকার/স্টেট সে তথ্য তা নিয়ে কখুন কি করতে পারে, সেট কি আমরা জানি?

Feb 7th e queerbeat namer ekta online site e article berolo. Seta ke bangla te lekha'r chesta korchi. English article ta eikhane ache: https://www.queerbeat.org/stories/my-last-wish-is-to-die-fair-and-pretty-these-hijra-women-think-glutathione-will-heal-more-than-their-skin

Bolche je hijde kothi ra ga er rong phorsha kora jonno ekta medicine nichhe jar bishesh podartho hochhe Glutathione naam er ekta chemical. Eita amader liver e samanyo bhabe toiri hoye. Liver er oshudh hishabe eita'r proyojon certified achhe. Eita te dekha geche ki kichu khetre ga'er rong phorsha hoye. Eita te rong phorsha korar jonno “wonder drug” hishabe bikri kora hochhe. Onek skincare treatment e o dewa hoye.

Kintu daam onek pore. Effect dekhte gele to ek bochor treatment nitei habe, 15 khana treatment o hote pare. Ekta treatment er daam, jaiga jaiga te depend kore, kintu 3000/– teen hazaar taka o hote pare. Aar skin er upore effect baniye rakhte hole treatment niye jete habe. Na hole, abar aager obostha te chole jabe dheere dheere. Bochor e 36,000/– theke 84,000/– dam porche treatment er, depend kore koto ta nichho.

Glutathione er market onek bodo. Onek jon nichhe to. Article e bolche ki Delhi, Maharastra, Punjab e praye 45% community nichhe. Aar non-community manush, film star, celebrity, era o nichhe. 2024 2 praye 117 crore taka'r market chilo Glutathione'er.

Lokjon nichhe to ki sundor lagbe, partner habe, customer habe. Kintu article e jei hijda kothi der interview korlo ora eita'o bolchilo ki ja extra kamai korche seta to treatment nite'i beriye jachhe. Kintu onek peer pressure ba community bhetor theke chaap o achhe – phorsha lagte habe, cis-women er moton lagte habe.

Medicine er side effect o achhe. Long term use korle kidney te effect hote pare. Especially kenoki ei treatment ta injection ba saline drip er sathe deya hoye, tablet ba syrup noye. Seta te side effect howa chance besi. Tai treatment nile o, doctor dekhiye neya utchit, kidney testing korate hoye. Kintu article e jei hijde kothi der ke interview korlo tara to bollo ki onek jon i doctor na dekhiye naye – fees aar testing er poisa beche jaye, keu besi side effect niye bhabe na. Ek jon bollo ki amra aar koto din banchbo, side effect bhebe ki habe.

Where Have You Gone?

Through a hurried life, Her presence compels me to pause and savor.

Why is it that I cannot look away? Like colors blending seamlessly into nature, Her essence merges gracefully with simplicity.

Moment by moment, She proves that the beauty of humanity Is the source of boundless joy.

Even after she departs, Like eyes sensing light even in darkness, Her absence lingers, traveling with her presence.

The warmth of her breath mingling with the air outside Gently caresses my solitude.

The places etched with her images Turn the mirage into a profound truth.

In my frozen world, Her realities melt away, leaving me bereft.

Where have you gone?

My contentment fades Without witnessing your playful innocence.

My peace turns to emptiness Without beholding your soft smile.

My hearing falters In the silence of your absence.

Where have you gone, My woman? Where have you gone?

There’s cave on your face You keep it ajar a lot You let it loose a lot Open, wide and wobbly The cave is a free country

Sometimes it has air At times it is fair Tales and toils it has been bare But dare someone to hear!

It's not fragile out there, It’s not brutal either; It’s not nice out there If nice is what you are

Still dare and dare Dare to care Since it’s only fair To show that you spare All your despair And tears that are queer.

everytime i settle down in my skin and start to feel safe, kolkata reminds me that women are never safe. ever. anywhere.

I have been staying in my place for four years now. it’s like 10 minutes of walk from Ranikuthi. a place i have felt relatively safer to navigate. i see other trans women and queer couples here in public, late night walks are serene and uneventful, often i finish my work and walk back home at around 1 am at night and never have i ever had to face any untoward behaviour except a few persistent offer for lifts from various men.

that changed this diwali. i didn’t get assaulted per se. but i didn’t feel safe. i didn’t feel carefree. i had to be alert and almost ran back to my apartment.

i got done with my work on 3rd at around 2 at night. i wasn’t worried about the time because these kinda times are normal for me. accounting for diwali i was expecting a little bit of life on the roads, and i wasn’t disappointed.

as i started walking back to my place, i started going through the learnings of the day and the task list for tomorrow. i was quite deep in thoughts so it took me a little while to realise two men on a sports bike had been circling me. they have been going in front of me, waiting for me to cross, and then slowly overtaking me and waiting patiently for me to come up and pass by again. i got more concerned once i started paying attention to what they were saying. it seemed the one driving was more excited and the pillion one was not. he had been busy texting. i could hear stuff like, “ki tight figure banra”, “mai gulo ki thatiye achhe, amaar haate fit hoye jaabe bol”, “oi pod ta ki dulchhe shala”, along with a little whistling, and making the bike growl and what not. last time they passed me before stopping their bike before a signal which was green, i heard one of them asked the other to ask me for a ride and i can sit in the middle of them two.

i missed having a cigarette in my hand. i’m not new to these comments. in most scenarios i pay no heed to them. but this is different, i’m alone, and i wouldn’t be able to do anything if they approached me. not like having a cigarette would solve the issue, but in my experience men prefers to not approach women who smoke openly for soliciting, they want us to smoke in the bedroom, not in public. i have previously made a habit of walking while smoking for precisely this reason.

before i could finish thinking what i would reply if they do become persistent about giving me a lift, one more bike with three more men came and joined them and an argument ensued. the bikers from the new bikes started hurling abuses to the driver of the first bike. “jekhani jabi sudhu magibaji”, “sobsomoye nongrami koraar dhanda”, “chup chaap onnoder disturb kora bondho kor, amader saathe chol.” the dude tried to say stuff like, “tora erokom keno korchhis? amar ta ami bujhe nebo”

at this point i crossed them, crossed the road, and was out of earshot. i couldn’t hear what they were talking about anymore. i know it was about me because i was the only woman in the road, there were a few more drunk uncles scattered around the road, minding their own business, drunk out of their mind. after i crossed the crossing, i have automatically started strutting, i couldn’t breathe, i couldn’t see anything around me anymore. i didn’t even realise when i started running, until the next day when a local neighbour asked me why i was running back home last night.

i wasn’t touched. i wasn’t slapped on my butt. i wasn’t dragged by my hand. i wasn’t felt up by groups of men. i wasn’t elbowed. which, in the four years i have been living in kolkata has happened multiple times except the year i shaved my head and became a shut in.

but i haven’t felt terror like this in years, since i got sexually assaulted in a taxi in last year february. i just couldn’t make it stop and get out. i felt helpless then as i felt utterly hopeless now. may be it is because of how things are right now. i think it’s kinda funny how if i die tomorrow on the road while sucking a dick or just because i chose to walk home at night, the people who would be in the forefront of the protests would be some of the people who had touched me up, or made me unwelcome in their space, or even actively tried to hamper my livelihood. i think it makes me lose hope in the world a bit. i think it makes me question all the work i am doing. and the absolute terror that i talk so much about this community, yet if something to happen to me at late night, almost no one would be available for help.

when i was doing the mental health workshop in chiang mai, i had a small breakdown in front of the facilitator as i was telling her how i am not built for the cities. when i got back to my home, all i could think about was how i can’t wait to run away from here. never to come back, never to talk to anyone i have known here, as i cried and cried and cried till it was almost morning.

you know, i tell myself it wasn’t as bad as some of the things i had to go through, they didn’t even touch me. it was just a possibility that thankfully didn’t come to pass. but for me and many like me, things like this will keep happening, and more often than not, more than we care to agree, or to accept ourselves, these possibilities will get realised and many of them will get escalated.

i’m tired. i’m honestly exhausted. i am at my wits end. i am lonely. i don’t got energy to write fun stuff. you all who are happy please go on write romantic stuff. i’m only gonna say what pops up in my head.

“অমর কাব্য তোমরা লিখিও বন্ধু যাহারা আছো সুখে”

The problem isn’t the name of the institution (school, college, company, non profit, home,...). It is how almost all spaces are structured hierarchically. With the power to oppress, to violate, to dominate being assigned to specific posts/status. We need to imagine new configurations for our lives, our work, workplaces. Where we are not dominated and bullied nor do we dominate and bully others. Bullying is not just commonplace amongst school/college students, grown ups in positions of power are bullying openly, harming people and careers, and preventing work because of their stupidity, arrogance, pettiness, and spite.

We need to learn to see how power operates. How it sustains and reproduces oppressive structures.

Of course, the colour, the plumpness, the pressure...the give. But beyond analysis, is a feeling of knowing. I just know. Or, at least, I feel that I just know. Sometimes I am wrong.

How do you?

I was going to the health camp organised by a community-based organisation on the Human Rights Day (Dec 10). I took the metro from Tollygunge to Dum Dum. The metro was already crowded when we boarded. I was standing near the door, holding an overhead grab-handle.

There was a woman standing by the door in front of me. I noticed that she was wearing a green kurti, pink sweater, and duppatta. I was wearing a green salwar-kurti with dupatta. Our eyes met and I passed a smile. She smiled back. But then she looked at me, puzzled. Then burst out in a laugh (not a boisterous laugh, no sounds, but a laugh that was mocking me). She looked away, then looked at me, and then laughed again. I asked her, in English, “Are you ok?” She said, “yes, I am OK.” I was annoyed. I stood more firmly, looking glassily straight ahead. Her eyes scanned my body and my chest. Then she laughed again. She started communicating with a similar-aged man standing across from her. They were traveling together. He was wearing brown slacks and a patterned deep blue button-up shirt. He looked a bit embarrassed. I had a bag slung over my shoulder and a water bottle in my hand. I clutched them tightly. She could see that I am uncomfortable. She laughed openly at me now.

I wondered what I should do? Doing nothing or moving away did not seem like an option. What happens if I protest? What's the chance that people might beat me up? Would I be able to handle it if this situation escalates? I felt alone.

The train was crowded. A couple of men standing beside me were noticing what is going on. I whispered loudly. “oshobho.” She scanned my genital regions with her eyes and laughed. “Rude.” I said more loudly, “Lajja kore na ei dhoron’er byabohar korte?” The man she was talking to called her to his side. She went and clung to his hand. She laughed again, and started talking to him about me. Everyone around could hear her talking about me. He wasn’t engaging, but she continued to try to get him to also make fun of me. It had been about 10 min since the journey started. It felt like an hour. I looked at the men beside me and said “ki dhoron er oshobhota, dekhuun” Their faces were like stone. But her boyfriend sternly told her to shut up. She complied but was angry at him. 

It felt a sort of victory, and I started smiling. She then started to quarrel with him about other things. Quarrelling with her companion was her way of registering protest. Seeing her cling to him and quarrel with him at the same time, I felt kinda sad. It felt like she was trapped in his protection. It felt so strange. We could have been friends, right? We could be collaborators on challenging patriarchy? And here we were, both protected by a man.

I'd love you a kind of love that goes unspoken Like a grave unnoticed By fox kits playing over them in bliss.

And those wild foxes bleed music from their veins As their feet graze Against the sweet hawthorns you planted for me When we found ourselves drenched in the soft summer rain That soon turned into a hailstorm of huge calamity. Without clarity, I lost you.

You were lost in my lies, While I wasn't there with you.

You should have been singing I should have been listening.

They search deep for a sweet Soulful sound that melts the ears, And years of time pass for them to meet The avalanche of emotions That sorrow brings into the threshold Of our skies where lies impatient Boreas and all the love that his mournful soul Has to offer to this willful ignorance of a childish heart.

Like a child I leap and scream your name into the heavens Where spark-birds fly limitless into the arms of Life

And you, among those rimless clouds, my love Smile back at me like I'm the treasure that you hunt And not me who searches a shelter by your irridescent feet

When my wounds are fresh enough to rise above the clouds of your empty vocal sounds, I'll know my chase for cowardice and its shadow began with the fool's halo. I need to know how cotton was made with my hair and alive was the forest inside your heart that was shrieked by the sounds of thunder and drum rolls outside the window.

Hysterically, the cadavers are cropping into your bones like stitches of woolen yarn, and you are smoking the snow smelling earth as if you are ashen by your winter. You don't know your name and not your blooming monstrosity, but it's rising flames into the loins of your empty bosom and as if you function as humane as nature you are puking bile.

I am not thinking about you but you are flashing in front of my eyes like faeries and nymphs on feast and inside the claustrophobic walls of my cosmopolitan house I find you the ghosts of English past. The fireplaces are so burnt with coal and wood painting the red on bricks and yet,

you flash like the sorcerer of my life, and yet, this is my monstrous cosmopolitan forests and the walls keep shrinking.

I fear that someday this hallucination of the past is all my today exists with truth. And when tomorrow I open my eyes it's a blank canvas so bright that even my shadow scares my soul to set a foot on earth. Maybe, I am thinking too much with nothing concrete but my city around me. But the cold shrine of winter moon on the swimming pool feels like slithering reptile scales, and I am soaked in all vile liquid and I am consuming it like a supple and galloping meat with a mouth and no air to fill vacuum space in me.

If someday you vanish from the throbbing cells of my antelope brain, and truth is not poison of my morning juice, and breakfast tastes like bakery in all its bloom, will I know my name and the sews I stitched on my gaping wounds, would seem like paper cuts of childhood games?

You have no mouth on your face now, and I don't remember you crook of nose but your spiraling eyes like the storm of the seas, resemble enough to the turbines of the laundry room, and I am staring too deep into the glass cages of whirlpooling fabrics as if you are looking at me, asking me tricks of your existence. And never when my spring break comes, once again, I set my eyes outside the door, hoping a drop of rain would fall on me and it would smell like the joy of soil, sorrows of the sky and ending all hopes of the sun to rise into the oblivion. Just like it used to when days were juvenile and trees were saplings. They needed sun. The sun couldn't face them because the skies wailed horribly.

I name you Michelangelo. You created me this pretty when I was soil and calcium of bones. But you are no artist and flawed like him. I call you so because in the history of my glory your existence will be mammoth. I am me, because you saw me then. But you'll be lost and barely remembered except your creation, the stapled scars of prude boyhood, and so lost will be your face, like so mouthless it is. Soon your eyes will be crawling with maggots and you will be consumed. Rotting the rotten, you'll be into the soil; in the calcium I came from, yet you'll be acid, and churning into the wheel of your eye; and I'll never look at the hullabaloo of soft fabrics in the laundry room. You'll be Michelangelo; forgotten and remembered; and I'll be the paintings of Rome, talking tales of mythology as if you built me in a day.