The "Girl" who didn't cry wolf!
Dedicated to Karthika Menon
she sat and they corralled her insides like feet; in a four-wheeled monstrosity that sweated abuse and reeked of calumny and double standard, of male egos that marry for sympathy, and chauvinism, and ignorance. But not love-love is a cinematic illusion, of course!!
As if standing tall against mendacity, of prejudice, and insecurity; was a crime; -for her.
There's poets of hypocrisy across every celluloid stand, crying behind
moribund scriptwriters, freedom banks.
Women NGO's cry hoarser than most; peddling a strange brand of MTV/ VH1/ Snapchat outrage.
Words having long lost their content, their meaning, their seriousness.
Words are now a "convenience, to them", to label, ex-flames who had to be used and thrown as part of their "journey"; or an ex-lover who didn’t realize that they had reinvented selves; or had just joined the latest righteous collective. you get the drift?
in that strange, pretentious, holier-than-thou land, every courtier is a stalker; every woman who reaches her spouse has a harasser outside her door,
every man who writes long letters pining for an end to the silence is a pervert.
every posted letter by her to her “buddies”-that horrible, gallivanting word-is sweet and time-consuming. every man who falls in love before she falls out of love is a criminal in the horse shit.
And he is fair game now-to be abused, held up as an example, trolled otherwise, or simply treated like horse dung.
every woman who kissed and had a second thought now reinvents the charter.
sitting afresh, playing games of hysteria; verbal barter.
The real victim, a brave lady at that, washes the wounds away; and will get up and get on. Her every action after this will be a slap on all our faces-men or women-who let her down.
But she will be standing. A consummate intelligent, brave, hero of a woman to who we all must bow to; not out of collective shame, since shame is the spermatozoid of losers; but in respect. In deference to an individual who did not buckle down before the NGO terminology dammed shadows of the night.
The rest will find lairs and new causes- to be used carelessly, in NGO clubs, and girl power meetings across the land-words that hurt and impale, without judge or jury-“stalk,” “harass,” “patriarchy,” “raised voices.”
The rest will fill out volunteer stench; castigate the men who dared to love before; salivate in the sanctuary, the comfort, that only collective lies in a collective group can provide.
We’ll then get on with our day jobs in teaching the next generation of lambs, to the slaughter.
On how to throw piety fueled abuse around. Or better still, on how to stay silent!! and use and cast away.
What will become of the hounded, the insane, who were falsely labelled by women at the top of their lying game?
What will become of the incinerated; in this extended charade?
What will become of the fools-who rushed in, to hear their armchair philosophy and their bedpan agitations?
What will become...of all us!
When truth was lost.... in the muck?
Rony Nair: "I have been a worshiper at the altar of prose and poetry for almost as long as I could think. They have been the shadows of my life.
"My work has previously appeared in and been accepted by Chiron Review, Semaphore, Mindless Muse, Yellow Chair Review, Quail Bell Magazine, Ogazine, Two Words For, New Asian Writing, Yellow Press Review, YGDRASIL journal, Sonic Boom, 1947, and others. I was a published columnist with the Indian Express and am also a photographer about to hold my first major exhibition. I have been profiled by the Economic Times of Delhi and have also written for them. V.S Naipaul, A.J Cronin, Patrick Hamilton, Alan Sillitoe, John Braine and Nevil Shute in addition to FS Fitzgerald are influences on my life; and Philip Larkin, Dom Moraes and Ted Hughes are my personal poetry idols. Larkin’s’ collected poems would be the one book I would like to die with. When the poems perish. As do the thoughts!"