By Gandhali Sawant
Oscillating
between tradition and modernity,
precariously hangs my nose ring
vacillating with the breeze.
Swaying along, fickle, I wonder
if it realises the statement
I try to make, unmake in gold.
Like the ones before me.
The periphery of my eyesight,
a glimpse of yellow, a bee
pinching my nose
halting movement, haunting time.
Sudden bouts of pain, discomfort
a reminder of something
deep and worse,
of patriarchy and stereotypes.
Desiring its uprooting
I throw it away, out of sight,
as the scars remain, and
so do the memories.