The Storm

battered-woman
I see a storm is brewing, yet
the composure on her face,
Same as the strange calm, right before
the conniption, evident through her gaze.

Gone is the happy camper, the young lass
with a Twinkle in her eye,
A smile winning hearts of both young and old
brighter than the summer sky.

Smudged kohl, speaks for her silence,
healing battered eyes and a bruised lip.
Like a tigress, who couldn’t be tamed,
left behind, the cage… to keep.

The day, she walked to the altar, the trousseau, Elegant
rather divine, angels could’ve taken a pass,
Brown curls, cascading like molasses, eyes azure.
A halo, sunrays encompassing the silhouette, hourglass.

She trudges forward, I gape astound,
a smile traces her lips, “It’s been… so long”,
though cheerful, yet a quiver, her voice
fragile as an old dame, when she’s so young!

Eyes welling up, this Twinkle she tries to hide,
I relate to the feigning tales of happiness, handlettered.
A fine story teller, now exposed
staring down at her feet, invisibly fettered.

“Let’s visit the beach”, she proposes, I nod
a 10 min walk from where we stood.
Just like ol’ days, the two confidants tread along
Nostalgic, reminiscing adolescence, teens and childhood.

Waves touch and go, bare feet squelching,
nearing the hide-out, a solitary stretch.
Oh infamous us, worthy of our mothers’ batons
we’d be lurking to escape, our discovered wretch.

“I wanna confess”, she says, without any hint of remorse
a headstrong voice, contradictory to her gestures.
I intent to listen was mine, a short nod
patient, no erratic measures.

Unbearable since her first night, tortures
she recollects being beaten and left for dead,
Drunkard, male chauvinist he was, the supposedly perfect groom
days turned weeks, and soon months, she toiled improperly fed.

Visiting her mother was out of the question
how dare she’d even ask?
Monthly grocery or much needed medicinals,
constant accusation of liaisons, a tragic task.

And then the loss, of her mother having passed
she wished to be permitted for the burial and service,
Nonchalantly waved off, was her every plea
leaving her in deep catharsis.

The night was dark and so was she,
by dawn the last tear-drop had dried.
The battle now futile, clutched tight in her hands
she considered the cyanide.

Time for morning tea, today she longed some too
made same way the barbarian had liked.
Simmering pot with the herbal aroma,
two cups filled to the brim, one spiked.

Wearing her best smile, she hands him the cup
ready for her own, the time was now near,
outraged the brute hollered abusive, flinging his tea
snatched hers instead, he sipped it with pleasure.

The predicament soon seemed justified,
as his deeds flash before her eyes.
She’d past all strings of attachment,
Apathetic to whether he lives or dies.

A long delayed departure, now makes its claim
barefoot she exists, guttural spasms a backdrop.
Resurrection she thought, well deserved
while the body gave away with a Plop.

The Twinkle now visible again, amid the faint azure
hot tears stream down my cheeks,
the storm has passed, i am stupefied
her beaming at the now setting sun, bespeaks.

Image courtesy of _ Getty images

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8 thoughts on “The Storm

  1. I love how you brought in the deterioration of a marriage and the rot that sets in manifesting itself in domestic violence. Such a stark image contrasts most effectively with the narrative of the wedding that is so symbolic of hope. Beautifully expressed …eloquently written😀

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Omg!! She likes…😱 It took me quite a while to pen it down and I was really sceptical about how it would turn out. But your words restored hope in me. Thank you so much for your kind words. I’m still learning and this, coming from you made my day!

      Liked by 1 person

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