Roll Call at the Crumbling Girl’s High School
Roll No. 1 is expected to outmature her brother,
who is years her senior;
declared grown overnight,
the day her body leaks red.
Roll No. 2 receives layer upon layer
of fabric to conceal herself
so men don’t drift;
her skin stays veiled always—
in heat, rain, and cold.
Roll No. 4 wakes at five, yet a late comer,
begins work before first light—
sweeping, bathing, feeding cattle,
cooking beside her mother.
Roll No. 6 watches scoop after scoop
poured onto her brother’s plate,
while she survives on morsels,
even on days she loses blood;
his sweat weighs more than her weakness.
Roll No. 8 likes someone quietly,
keeps her eyes lowered;
he dismisses her as arrogant,
not knowing it is only a cover
for her permissioned life.
Roll No. 9 is married to the village milkman
who owns a dozen cows;
she is allowed schooling
until her gauna arrives.
Last year, Roll Nos. 3, 5, 7 died
of cholera
due to open defecation;
the village Block Officer reported
snake bites.
Footnote: Gauna is a customary post-marriage ritual in parts of India marking the time when a bride leaves her parental home to live with her husband, often ending her schooling.
For the Last Drop of Oil
Humanity is but one broken family
of unfortunates—splintered
into ruthless religious states, led by
the tangled doctrines
of a few fanatics, who seize a thousand minds
through warped semantics, and turn
meaning into direction— toward ruin.
Deaf to reason, blind to negotiation,
we have learned to perfect one act: destruction.
A blind force, ready to hammer at our doors,
relentless through centuries
of unnumbered wars.
Nothing, it seems, will quench this rage
until we drag our civilization back
through ash and wreckage
to its first cold beginning—
the stone age.
And still, we look outward.
We dream to settle—uninvited—
on a red planet not ready for us,
never will be.
Meanwhile, we reduce to ashes
the only place that ever was.
The ground still holds
our children—
and deeper,
what we bury so it will not speak:
our nukes, hidden in her womb.
She does not resist.
She only watches as her creation
refines itself into spillage;
blood, milk, water—
over spilled oil.
Greed will outlast the oil we burn—
a dark tar for which we trade
our brethren.
The Outcry from a City Brothel
Each man carries a burning in the chest,
a storm in his eyes—
is that why he comes here?
Every man in this city
seems so perturbed—why?
What place is this, sister—
what kind of world is this,
where, as far as the eye can see,
clouds of smoke hide innocence?
To what point has life brought me—
where I have no taste for joy,
no sting even from sorrow?
My heart shamelessly
always finds a reason to beat—
why then does it feel
like stone,
lifeless?
My soul demands an audit
of this lifetime spent—
in this dungeon, my body
stands ashamed before itself.
My mirror has lost its memory of me
over the years;
each time it reflects me,
it seems startled.
Is someone calling
from behind those veils—
or is it only the thought
that someone, somewhere,
waits in longing for me?
That which has no face,
no name—
why have I waited for it
since forever?
What stage of loneliness is this, sister—
that as far as my vision can travel,
there is nothing
but a wasteland?
Tushar Sen is a finance professional who also engages in sustained creative and scholarly writing. He is the author of Pandora’s Box, a collection of short stories available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Audible. In 2020, he wrote and produced the short film Zulfi, which screened internationally and received 22 laurels across film festivals. His writings has appeared on LongformReads, Lekh, Indian Review, andSpecPo Verse.
Cover photo credit: Mathias Reding