A “30 something” virgin woman


A right breast that hasn’t tasted saliva
And the left, seeming in the same fate
Yet possessed by the dream
Of becoming milk canisters – which like squeeze-bottles
Can spurt some colostrum and tides of milk
Down a bacteria-scarce
Prim and proper buccal cavity

She has mastered a lot in life
– The Ph.D. certificate still rolled in ribbon
The trophies next to her queen bed
And the kiss that could not usher in bliss –
As she looks around at the dust
The visible, on table tops and grills,
And the invisible, her own dust veneers
Only broken by mosquito dimples
Cratered pimples and tattooed scabs

She goes to the bathroom
Opens the shower-cubicle and slips in naked
And lets the crispy cold water
Cause havoc with her coastline
As she slowly feels the netting beneath her navel
Which just like a mantilla
Covers the beauty of what lies beneath
No smile, perfect nose or brown eyes here though
Just a wilderness, her own sacred place, a rain forest
That has seen raindrops, even monsoons
But is yet to germinate precious life
From seeds that fall like manna
From ovarian heavens

She cries, when a chlorine drizzle
Cleanses the saline dew on her nostril tops
As she looks at the pallid skin
Being exfoliated and dry-skin resurfacing
On her outer side of palms
When cosmetic moisturizers mask nuances
Of the downward spiral of age
After all, 35 is like a litmus test
For the fecundity of the hip-basin

And she comes out and moves back to the dining room
Where her parents are and joins
In a cup of tea, after all she is the mistress of disguise
Thorns pricking like nails and petals
On the peduncle blooming as saccharine lips
When loneliness speaks a familiar tongue
And a man is a faraway foreign land
Needing the passport of youth to enter
Pasted with an entry visa
Of a broken hymen

And she looks at the statue of Virgin Mary
And prays for an earth-shattering miracle
To get a temporary visa
To enter that strange land
Where under-growths are heavy
And desire-fruits are ripe

That quintessential place
Where fools enter headlong – seemingly blind
To find the folly of Bedlam.


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