Tuesday, October 5, 2010

The window

At the time
When girls were
Not allowed to be seen
Confined to the kitchen
And the backyard
Till they were married off
They saw the world
Only through the window
They lived in the dark
Moved in the shadows
If they had to come to the front door
They had to switch off the lights
Many hardly went out
Did not know
What it looked like
Beyond their street
Where the railway station was
What a train looked like
What it ran on
Where it went
They only knew that
It travelled
Long distances
Visited new places
And envied it for that.

6 comments:

P. Venugopal said...

superb poem, Prabhakar. you made it hauntingly touching, if that is the expression i want.

Prabhakar said...

Venu, thanks. On reading it later I was wondering if I had got it right. Obviously the restraint has worked.

P. Venugopal said...

exactly. restraint is the thing. it makes the writing three-dimensional. whatever we have that we keep out of the writing will add power to what we write. it is always there at the back of what we write and so long as we don't fictionalise, the consistency too is there, like the colour of transparent water. no elaboration is required, isn't it?

Prabhakar said...

You've explained it very well.

Balachandran V said...

It moves, across my mind, like a film in high speed - I see it all- the dank, dark innards, the shabby clothes, the blackened kitchen,the pictures of Gods on the walls - and the shaft of light through the little window... Haunting, like most of your poems...

Prabhakar said...

Thanks to social reform movements and positive government discrimination at least a small percentage of our women have been liberated.