VALIDATION
Don't worry, this is not
a poem on feminism
Because being, pretending
being seen as, being seen with
a feminist, itself has been
reduced to a fashion statement
My body is a brand
A brand called validation
I can be bought, kept in a shelf
to serve exactly the purpose
you placed your trust in me
The back of my neck
has a bar code,
tattooed as a symbol
of the product I have become
From head to toe
and toe to head
a part of me
every part of me
has indulged
in seeking validation
Eyes to begin with
I started wearing contact lenses
to replace my thick glasses
because I overheard
my grandfather
when I was 8, saying
Now who will marry her
if she wears chashma
I wore a nose ring to
dispel the truth that
I am a studious geek
And I do this exercise
(Lip over teeth)
several times every day
because Cosmo said
its the best way to
get rid of that
ugly double chin
These little babies
have been pushed up
so high to stand out
padded yet screaming
to be picked, to be liked
I am guilty on top
of wearing graphic t-shirts
to concerts where I don't know
the name of the bands performing
Of wearing kurtas
and carrying jholas
full of name dropping pennies
to obscure movie festivals
I wanted to be in the middle
of a circle so bad, that after
feeding on Bollywood
as my staple diet for 21 years
I lay open my senses to names
I don't understand and still can't
correctly pronounce
Floyd, Scorsese, Goddard, Farhadi
Nolan, Kundera & Dostoevsky
They all came along to help me
chase friends, under the holy trinity
of books, films and music
I am guilty of holding DSLRs to sunsets
as moments and memories
kept passing me by
and taking countless selfies
to portray myself in the best light, always
But this is superficial still
Dig deep, so deep that the need to
belong makes you spiral deeper
Several reluctant blow jobs are proof
that the fear of sleeping alone, makes
these hands and my mouth keep
a hundred secrets
That these hips have been suffocated
within drainpipes of denim that sculpt
my bottom, to a most rounded stereotype
I have fit in, I have jumped to fit in
I have fought to fit in when fringed out
Fit in, fight out. Fit in, fit out
This express validation work out
has made a mannequin of me
that sits dressed at a shop window
with its monotonous smile, calling out
Pick me pick me pick me
But it's closing hours now
And a submerged voice
Beneath my lens-ed eyes
And dolled up body is trying
to find its own words.
This poem is also validation
against validation
Choices
These girls
they get married
and lug their suitcases
wearing mehendi from
their father's homes
to their husband's
but they pay half rent
These girls are my friends
We went to class together
we spoke of liberation
in hostels unmanned
by parents and wardens
we exercised choice
when we said we want
a mixed hostel, not a convent
we fought for choice
we fought
These girls
attend other weddings
they ask me
when's mine
I digress
I observe strongly
I hate the smell of mehendi
among other things
I am reminded of choices
I exercise
I go for baby showers
