Poetry

The Clown

I see her every morning
With the pillow over her head.
Lost in overwhelming thoughts.
Restless in her bed.

I see her phone ringing endlessly.
I see her shut it down.
She can’t hold a conversation.
Too much effort, too much sound.

Life has stopped for her.
But they are racing ahead.
She is destined to lose.
So she bottles it instead.

She looks like a ghastly painting.
The canvass rough and worn.
The colours forever fading.
The lines so faintly drawn.

I see her some hours later.
And she is someone else.
A whole new different wardrobe.
A credit to herself.

A veil is over her struggles.
Hardly a trace can be seen.
Temporarily enabled,

No one knows where she’s been.

She’s able to interact.
She’s in touch with time.
There is colour on her cheeks.
Her eyes are full of shine.

And then again tomorrow,
The face out in town,
Will disguise her dull and dreary.
And reveal herself as the clown.

(C) Juneha Chowdhury, 2020

First published on Write On! Extra

Poetry

Fine Line

The sky is plastered with an

image of her,

hovering over me as I rest.

A childhood spent nursing a

crooked neck,

Looking up, bowing down,

mockery at its best.

Our home is like a shrine to

her.

Every wall boasts

something in her name.

A lifetime lost learning a single

lesson,

How we can never be the

same.

The centrepiece of every

photo,

Exhibiting charm I clearly

lacked.

Leaving footprints wherever

she goes,

The main attraction, the

headline act.

She climbs to heights others

can only dream of.

The better grade, the higher

score.

Sets standards so

unreachable,

How I wished I came before.

A mastermind, as much as a

beauty queen,

Behind every scheming

idea, a thorough plot.

A regimented plan to achieve

her goal,

With whatever it takes,

whatever she's got.

I admire her, yet despise all

that she stands for,

Forever her lady-in-waiting.

Uncaptured in photographs of

my sister and me,

That fine line between loving

and hating.

(C) Juneha Chowdhury, 2021

Poetry

Delivery

At 12 weeks, they booked me

in for a follow up appointment.

At 16 weeks, they confirmed

something was not quite right.

At 18 weeks, they offered

me extra support.

At 20 weeks, I struggled to

bear my own sight.

Then every two weeks

another scan, but the

prognosis remained the same.

One by one, they all lined up

to point the finger of blame.

The mother declines invasive

testing, so we can’t analyse

the genes.

Pages of observations and

illustrations. So sure, they

know what it all means.

It’s a shame, they say, tests

will have to wait until after it is

born.

Only then will we know the

extent of the defect.

But it’s not looking good, they

warn.

The mother declines this; the

mother declines that,

‘cause knowing all the risks, a

mother refuses to harm her

baby.

Whatever it is, it still belongs

to her,

So for her, it is never a

question of maybe?

Hours before giving birth,

They remind me to expect the

worst.

All those difficult scenarios,

I am forced to think of them

first.

And when she arrives, I feel

guilt and dread eating away

inside.

Consumed with questions,

without any answers, all I

want to do is hide.

I wait for them to come to me,

shift after shift, night

after day.

But they seem too busy to

have that conversation so I

stay out of their way.

And finally, a week in, I

demand answers.

I demand to know what they

have found.

Tests, what tests,

Madam? One says, so

casually.

You can voice your concerns,

when the consultant comes

around.

Months of hell, they put me

through, and now, not a single

word.

What about all those things

they said before, and the

others I overheard?

They tell me, she is perfect,

Just a little underweight.

I can’t believe she’s normal,

‘cause reassurance comes

too late.

They tell me they will

discharge her soon.

And she’ll be home before

long.

But not one person dressed in

white or blue said, ‘I’m sorry,

we got it wrong.'

(C) Juneha Chowdhury, 2021

Poetry

Daddy’s Girl

He is not the man that held my hand

And taught me how to walk.

The man before me cannot recall a time

We used to talk.

He is not the man that pulled a crowd

And filled a room with cheers.

The man before me slurs his words

And can’t communicate his fears.

He is not the man- my biggest fan-

Who held me like a light.

The man before me- stumbling in darkness-

Has lost the will to fight.

He is not the man,

That could run for miles with bags in either hand.

The man before me can barely move

Without an aid or stand.

He is not the man

That fed my face till I could eat no more.

The man before me, looking through me,

Does not know who I am, for sure.

He is the man

I call my Dad. I am his precious girl.

The man before me, though he ignores me,

makes every bit of my world.

(C) Juneha Chowdhury, 2021

Poetry

A Woman

He tells me to pick a word.
A word that best defines me. ‘Who are you? One word,’ he says.
I struggle.
He rolls his eyes.
I am lost.
He looks surprised.
‘How hard is it to pick out one word?’ he says, ‘Out of a list of so many?
One word must ring true to you.’
I nod.

He is encouraged, but he doesn’t have a clue.
I stand up and put a word on the board.
‘Finally’ he says, ‘One word!’
‘I haven’t finished,’ I say, handing him another and then another.
‘One word doesn’t even begin to cover it.
You asked me who I am. I am a woman and a woman is always more than one thing.’

I’m the nurse.
I’m the counsellor.
I’m the teacher.
I’m the judge.
I’m the jury.
I’m the love, with all the fury.
I’m the giver
I’m the fighter.
I’m the believer.
The risk- taker.

I’m the enemy. Yet I’m your friend.
I’m the beginning with no end.
I’m the failure that yields success.
I’m the bow with many strings.
Cos a woman can never be just one thing.

First published on Pen to Print