My mother’s beautiful hands adorned in mehendi.



At the hands of the tribal, I was slayed,

At the hands of the dancing beast of the forest.

He tied rocks to my ankles and I couldn’t complain,

Tormented, I was, when they merged with my skin.

Over the moons, it pricked each vein.

It pained me so but didn’t bleed.


Finally, when the rocks fell in weary defeat,

I picked them up, clasped them in my palms

And struck my toes bloody.