Poems: A Tale of Round Rotis

Poems: A Tale of Round Rotis

By Prerna Bakshi
QuailBellMagazine.com

*Editor's Note: These poems have been previously published: A Tale of Round Rotis (Indiana Voice Journal); Family gup-shup (Chit chat) (Indiana Voice Journal); Forgotten (Wilderness House Literary Review); Suitcase (Indiana Voice Journal); Sexism doesn’t exist (The Harpoon Review); "That's so like a girl!" (Anti-Serious).

A Tale of Round Rotis


Ever Since I was growing up
I was told just how important it was
to cook round rotis.
Perfectly shaped
soft, round rotis.

I hated them
for their supposed
'perfectness', in a world
full of people
far from perfect
who would judge a woman's worth
by her ability to make 'round rotis'.

I hated them
for what they put
countless women through
with women slogging in the kitchen
kneading, rolling dough
making, unmaking, remaking
to escape from being judged.
All for that ever desirable
perfectly shaped round roti.


No I don't like them 'round'.
I like them Tedhi-Medhi. Thank you!
Far from what's regarded
'perfect', I know.
But at least, this way, they resemble
our lives.
The lives of women.
Lives which are
far from perfect.
These imperfect, unsuitable rotis, then
are much more realistic, after all,
don't you think?


...

Family gup-shup (Chit chat)


Tea will be ordered.
Plates of biscuits will be offered.
Coffee table will be filled
with samosas, kachauris, namkeen.
Then, they’d all sit down
to an abundant meal prepared by her
(most likely that took hours in the making).
If feeling generous,
they’d pay her some compliments.
Finishing the meal,
family gossip and
conversations will follow in the lounge room.

See, he doesn’t take me out anywhere.
As the room will break out in laughter
Please, say something!
As everyone will continue to giggle
He’d listen to you, if you say,
she will say with a glimmer of hope
as chuckles will fill the room.
They’d then look at their watch,
say they’d better leave.


Another day,
another family union,
repeat.

There is something deeply sinister about
our society that finds humor in
women’s sheer lack of autonomy,
forced domesticity.

...

Forgotten


With no lullabies to sing,
no stories to tell,
no songs remembered,
I rock the cradle gently,
hoping it will stop you from crying,
but you continue to cry.

I lift you up,
bring you back down again,
kiss you on your cheek and then back up again.
I do this several times,
hoping it will stop you from crying,
but you continue to cry.

I try to feed you.
Pat your tummy.
Talk to you.
Play with you.
But none of this works,
as you continue to cry,
you continue to cry, cry, cry, cry, cry,
until Amma speaks to you
in your tongue – the mother tongue.

...

Suitcase


They say one craves for things
they can’t have.
I never understood why people say
they hate living out of their suitcases.
I want to meet these people.
I would gladly exchange
my life with theirs.

For years,
I’ve diligently folded,
packed away clothes, and
everything else in a neat,
organized manner,
in their predictable spaces,
in drawers, shelves, cupboards.
Everything had to be in its
confined, permanent spot, and
that was that.

But there is nothing so permanent
about a traveling suitcase.
For it symbolizes transition.
The journey.
The now, not so much of forever.
Each suitcase tells its own story.
Uncertainty over
what might lie ahead.
Certainty over
what has been left behind.
Things that will find their place
in future, and
things that just didn’t
make the cut
for them to be packed inside.
A suitcase provides escape.
It gives hope.
It reflects moments.
Moments cherished,
moments left behind,
new moments that await…

...

Sexism doesn’t exist


Next time someone says
sexism doesn’t exist,

ask them to pay close attention to
their inner voice when

a woman pilot onboard
makes this announcement:

“This is your Captain speaking.”

...

"That's so like a girl!"


That I ended up hitting him
so hard
when throwing the ball back,

I was concerned
if he was alright.

#UnReal #Poems #Poetry #Forgotten #Rotis #ChitChat #Suitcase #Sexism

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