No, my nightmares don’t revolve around ghosts and spirits.
I wish they would;
I wish they were too unreal to
But instead, when I close my eyes,
I see a little girl is pinched in her arse,
The full moon weeps a song of her cries,
Her own family gives the wolves a pass.
I see the monstrous hands of an old lady
Who always lurk on the pavements forbidden.
They grab my feet, sudden and steady,
For a penny or two. Herstory remains hidden.
I see fire in my eyes and flickering flames
As a Shadow chases me from behind.
My dress is his armor, shrouding his shame.
His cold fingers turn my blaze blind.
I see my mother sabotaged by lies:
The kitchen cabinet safes her cries.
I see Saraswati bleed ink in the battlefield,
She carves her own skin against the night’s shield.
I see kajal smudged like the pyre’s ashes.
Veiled under the dupatta, the doppelganger smiles.
Painted across her canvas are carmine slashes,
Her wrist beneath the bangles, by bruises, defiled.
Sometimes, I free fall into a lucid space.
I see TVs flash a doll’s leg with a chick head
And a cow barking with a bitch face.
A man called History chains the monsters under this bed,
And upon it I lie,
A creature tied,
To the altar to be sacrificed.
I see a manic girl screaming on the roadside,
With all her luggage lying beside:
Like the repetitive sound effects
In the horror movie’s warning:
“Don’t let it in,
don’t let it in,
don’t let it in.”
Reverberating and echoing.
And when I wake up,
My dreams are not just dreams,
I stand on the liminal space,
Where dreams and reality intermesh.
It doesn’t really matter,
For they have always been one.