BY CHANDRIMA PRAMANICK
Betwixt bent brows and silent laughter,
Shame trickled down your cheeks.
Tales of lost sunburnt tresses they reflected
Now naked, barren, and bleached.
Do I dare?
Oh, dare I dream!
Of bald women taking over the streets.
Streets that fear and shun
Every breath. Every action.
Every outrageous woman.
Rise then, and burn!
Spew blood. Burp and fart.
Flood their coop of purity
With your feminine fluids.
Smear their cliche with your filth.
Pollute their thoughts with your masculinity.
Dare I dream?
Of a sovereign
Not of candle marches
And dismissed protests,
Where dull knives carve my flesh on a walk home,
Or eyes ogle at the men that walk past my door.
Where female friends won't make you lesbians, and male friends, whores.
Do I dare?
Dare to dream
A world free from set norms of beauty.
Her unshaved legs. My pimple-puss.
'Get Slim in 30-days of Weight Loss' charts.
No longer condemned. No longer required.
Will there ever exist a Utopia of such desires?
Where women can bare their nipples
Just the way men do,
Or urinate on the roadside, neglecting public loo.
That is my dream-
Of dreaming yet better.
So that the mental health of the world is not in tatters.
You need not think twice over shedding your hair,
Or light a cigarette in dark alleys, in fear.
But that's just a dream.
A dream it will remain.
They will measure your hormones, not your emotions.
You will be called names- bitch and slut.
Your skin will be covered. Your mouth will be shut.
Acid on your face. Bullets in your hole.
"Produce humans" is what you will be told.
You will for ever be a category-
Beefy or skinny, black or pale.
Your intellect won't matter.
You'll be a commodity for sale.
But will you dare?
Not to rely on social media
To validate your self-esteem;
Dance to cheap songs
That sexualise you in all vulgarity.
Or dictate the same to this generation and the next?
Dare, must I say, to dream.