Biographies
by Anuradha Vijayakrishnan
[ poetry - november 08 ]
We did not shoot the township bully. Who waited
for us, behind the water tank.
We did not
tell the cops the shape of his strange
face, either. How he hid in the purple
clump of lantana shadows every day,
at the same time. The precise angle
of what he did to us. Every-day.
We did not take a different route
home, or cry into our mothers' saree
pleats. We washed our hair on Friday
evenings; collected ghost stories, nightmares, biographies
of angry girls who turned
into spirits. And who ate their enemies alive, drank
blood, ruled the world in their sleep.
But we did not carry axes or packets of chilli
powder with us; or guns. As we walked
past the haunted corner, we did not hold
hands or look away. Did not shed one
tear, or mutter ancient curses. We kept
walking, every-day. Hoarding
small, shiny coins of fear - in the pockets
of our pinafores.
We did not shoot the bastard; he died
in the war.
