Anandi Kar is pursuing English Honours in St. Xavier’s College, Kolkata, India. As a young poet, she has already drawn significant attention of readers and critics. Some of her poems have already been published and some more have been selected for publication in some prestigious journals. She is also a content writer and has written a short story which has been turned into a play. She is the head writer of the popular page, "Feminists of Calcutta". She loves to sing, act and sleep. Kar was born on 19 May, 2001.
We Raise Our Voice To God
They complain that our voice in the choirs ring out like untamed beasts. Surpassing softness of chiming bells like dirty horses in a race. # We don't lower our voice. It rises and rises like a stony mountain till it can reach to the place where God lives. # The pain in our high pitches cannot filter through any known nicotine patch. Our wounds are raw cancer. # Our churches might be white and pretty. The ivy hangs like light from off their walls. Our tambourine is soulful and all. Yet, our God does not live here in America.
The telephone booth stands there like my saviour. In the setting sun of the last autumn, I misread the vultures for white clouds. My jaws reek of blood. # Before the snow could fall like pellets from the grey sky, beat the soft, weak ground, I walk in. # By and by, I also walk out. I don't dial 911. I walk out and whisper desperate, indistinct prayers Dedicated to the stone statues.
They call me a primate. They don't know that my flat nose can detect smells. # Don't you get fooled by this metal pin that shines sometimes like a sharp knife. # They call me a primate and through this flat nose I can squarely smell their dead meat. They remind me of violence. I feel like puking revulsed by the weight of their bamboozling evolution, their lowly sophistication. # Thank God, for I am a primate.
A Job That Is Not a Part of the Job
You trample over the flower that dares to cross your path. You take it as a part of your job and you do it with every inch of your might. # Grind it like the peanuts in a blender.
# The flower does not yell with pain. Its voice had already been aphonic with all these years of despotism. It wriggles like a worm in polished apple. # You feel uncomfortable. A hollow lump forms in your throat. Yet, it is not enough to arrest your beefy muscles. # After seven minutes, seven steady minutes, all wriggling would stop. # Its the end of your job for the day and you go home. Act as if nothing happened. Make love with your wife, laugh with your kids before bedtime. # But at midnight, in your sleep, you can hear the dead flower shriek in the highest pitch on earth. # You wake up with a start. The bedsheets get wet with your sweat . # A strange thought crosses your mind: sometimes when a man becomes flower, the mountains or sweet rivers that you know don't remain breathtaking anymore.