My language is dark and dangerous and desperate in its eagerness to slaughter your myths. My language is not man-made it is beyond the white-hot rules of your seminal texts.
This tongue allows me to resist rape, to rescue my dreams. I choose my words, coarse as the conned Kannagi’s colourful curses, chaste as her breast that burnt down a capital city. They take on the sun, they take after me. I work to not only get back at you, I actually fight to get back to myself. Twisting your story to the scariest extent allows me the liberty of trying to trust you. Telling my story another way lee me forgive you. Like each of these women, I have to write poetry to be heard, I have to turn insane to stay alive. I am also Karaikkal Ammaiyar, suspected of infidelity for being ravishingly beautiful. That is why I am Mira, Andal and Akka Mahadevi all at once, spreading myself out like a feast, inviting the gods to enter my womb. I am unconventional, but when I choose to, I can carry tradition. So, my Mahabharata moves to Las Vegas my Ramayana is retold it three different ways. It is just that I struggle with any story that has stayed the same way for far too long. I am no atheist – I allow everyone an existence. Therefore, I take perverse pleasure in such deliberate paraphrase. You are the conscience of this Hindu society. You are all the men for whom I would never moan, never mourn. You are Sage Gautama turning your wife to stone.
You are Manu robbing me of my right to live and learn and choose. You are the repressed Ram from whom I run away repeatedly.
0 kommentar(er)
