Vidhavai (or Widow)

An ode perhaps;

A Dithyramb


And performed

Just for her;

This woman

With a big face

And a “pedda bottu”;

Yellowed with the use of too much turmeric

Oiled hair

Pulled back

Red teeth, Red lips

As she spits out

That red glob;

Blood purified by blood;

A chillum in her hand


Ever smiling

Feral teeth


A Pattu Sari


Around her



Or perhaps both;

She of the thousand names;

Bare breasted

Now singing an Oppari


The death

Of her dreams;

What’s in a name

But our ambition

To limit one’s character

And sum it up

And hold it in

Within that

Controlling her

What she should be

What she should mean;

Clothing her

In yards of a white cloth

Forbidden to see or feel colour

Of any kind anymore;

Hide her

And her shame

By tonsuring her head

And locking her up

Lock her evil gaze

Before she desecrates our homes

With her bad luck;

She of the thousand names

Now has one;


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