At 40

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

In these fingers outstretched 
like fields ploughed   
            plugged        into variable tones

of mehendi green bangles, 
blades of grass overlap
into a   d.i s cor dant      harmony  That's the color they wed to  in the old village by the banks In these finger scales  that grow like scallops  I inherit a thousand destinies  that never became The robbed joy of formation  of curvature cut into flatness, beaten by a rolling pin into a dimming delay  A monotony with five hundred faces At the age of 40 the women in my neighborhood develop a strange sickness Their eyes, kale and algae dotted wells, swirling echoes Strawberries like cleaved hearts  Hanging ever so loosely on unearthed lips, reminiscent of a certain wholeness At the age of 40 the women in my country tend to drop like sticks, all at once,  Their bodies talking of a suffocation …

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