A Room Of Uneven Silence" (In The Image-Style Of Kamala Das) Poem by Sumita Jetley

There is silence in this room—but it does not belong to me.
It belongs to the rusting doorknob, turning only for others.
To the brass tumbler on the side table, still wet with spit from a half-drunk night.
To the skin between my thighs, raw from chafing, not love.

I sit—no, crouch—on the edge of the bed.
It sags in the middle like my mother's sari petticoat, tired from too many tucks.

This is not sleep-deprivation.
This is a starvation of the self.

I lie down but do not sleep.
The pillow smells of eucalyptus oil and unspoken arguments.
The blanket is pockmarked with the dried milk of children long grown.
I find hair—mine, maybe. Maybe not.
Long. Greying. Twisted like old vines on abandoned walls.

I once had dreams that walked barefoot across beaches,
now they limp in kitchen corners.

The fan circles like a vulture.
The calendar hangs like a noose above the refrigerator.
Its days cross themselves out before I get to live them.

Even my sighs are scheduled.

There is no place here to sit and just be.
Even the toilet has eyes.
The mirror in the bathroom fogs up quickly, perhaps in shame,
perhaps in mercy.

My breasts no longer remember desire.
Only the mechanical suckling of mouths that needed me,
then forgot.

My thighs are strong—not for dancing,
but for squatting over basins,
for holding groceries against auto rickshaw rides,
for curling up into themselves
when no one comes home on time.

They say I am lucky.
That I have a roof, a family, a husband who does not beat.
But they do not see that I beat myself
into corners,
into rice grains that must not be sticky,
into WhatsApp school groups with smiley faces and dead women behind the screen.

Once, I dared to write a poem.
A love poem.
The kind that stains fingertips.
My mother said—hide it
My husband said—what will people think?
My child said—I'm hungry.

So I cooked instead.

Tonight, I did not.
I did not cook.
I did not fold.
I did not bleed.

I lay naked on the mosaic floor.
The tiles cold as old gods.

And for a second—just a second—
I felt holy.