Yes,
It was my desire that made him male
And beautiful, so that when at last we
Met, to believe that once I knew not his
Form, his quiet touch or the blind kindness
Of his lips was hard indeed. Betray me?
My body’s wisdom tells and tells again
And even death nowhere else but here in
My betrayer’s arms …
(From Summer in Calcutta)
What it disturbs us is her coquettish nature, her freaks in love. How does she keep on changing metaphors so easily? It was her desire which made him a male and they met with each other, fell in love and as thus the story of love started it, the story of life and she started writing her autobiography, the autobiography of a woman. But he seemed to be hard upon on the lips. But the body has the counsel of its own.
ReplyDeleteWhat is it that makes a woman womanly? Her dress, attire, fashion, beauty stuffs, make-ups and dressing? The making of a feminist we can read it from this poem.
Who the betrayer and the betrayed? Is love sham and fraudulent? Is love physical and possessive? When will the woman be liberated from this obsession?