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By Parizad Gaur

Rina spelt her name as Nari; meaning women in Hindi, She liked it, because of the anagram it perceived Just a flip of words, twist and turn it all around, And ‘women’ it says

Yes, she’s a women

Rina has known wells and red bindis and barefeet with payals, Tied on shivering legs, echoing in between the sarson fields, Breezing through the breeding flowers,

As they smile and giggle,

Rina always looked at them with quit shrill stillness, Wanting to be plucked and move with the wind She’s been aware of the scorching sun’s moving positions From dusk till dawn

More than her concreate fore ceiling full of scrapped cement, That needs renovation, but

She has never caught a glimpse of it for more than a few minutes And even at night, the holes remind her of the pinching sun light; Falling on her face making her tanned, as she plucks the sarson beads Rina glanced at the silver paltered moon endlessly

Half, crescent or full,

She wondered her satellite standing on the pits that lay on the moon’s grey ground,

She always yearned for more than just plucking the sarson beads, Or just being exposed to the colour yellow,

May it be the turmeric that stains

her nails,

Or the yellow lined saree border; she knitted and made,

Nari longed to leave those sarson fields and reach to the moon

By Parizad Gaur

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