She venerates the four bands that flap high
in the sky of her mind though it’s hard to
tell them from the crisscross of shooting stars.
They make such soft, elegant waves, each day—
and they’re much better than the Union Jack.
But since the white man’s gone, every night, she
gropes for sense within whirlwinds of colours.
She’s not been to school to understand their
possible ramifications. And in
their infinite nuances, she can’t rule,
so she holds loose dreams inside her tight fist.
She thinks of the green not as verdure, but
butterflies that perished on their first flight.
Green is the man on whom she wants to cheat.
It’s how jealous she is of her parents;
she’ll never have a child as good as theirs.
She thinks of the yellow as her young heart—
one where the tongues of five towns tango loud.
Yellow is the rural inferno in
which she burns religiously every noon.
It’s the sun that cascades over the fools
trying hard to outwit her ignorance.
The blue is a rare, powerful bullet—
the missing part of her dream suicide.
It’s also her unborn baby, because
of whom she is called barren, a churel.
It’s the dry hole she’s in, and keeps digging.
The red is the bloody charlatan she’s
crossed, the passion she’s had to mortgage—it’s
the keyword that became disillusioned
and dropped out of the sentence of her life.
It’s not the struggle for independence!
As a girl, bewilderingly sincere;
as a woman, sincerely bewildered—
everything’s kaleidoscopic chaos,
a tight thought loosening—pining for Light.
About the Author
Amit Parmessur, 37, is a poet and tutor from Mauritius. His writing has appeared in around 160 magazines namely, WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal. He loves to pick off past experiences, turn them over in the light and lie about them.