• Hasitha Illa

My Grandmother and her stories

I don't often sit with my grandmother, You know, How they are? Full of stereotypes, But today, She was different, Like an old version of Her own self, That she had lost, Somewhere along the way, That grandma, Who used to tell stories Of her childhood, That grandma Who doesn't complain about my disability, That grandma, Who was mom's favorite, I read her eyes, While listening to her stories, Brimming with joy, And telling me, About the pre-partition era, Her eyes, Told me the horrors, Horrors of being a woman, A woman, Whether young or old, Nowhere was safe, Because a woman meant honour, A honour could be ripped off, At any point in time, That day and time was different, But yet the same, Police registers fill with cases of rape and abduction, Nobody to judge, Nobody to call a hearing, Nobody to call for help , A woman is helpless, Whether then and now, Because they think that their honour, Lies in the vagina, Each section thinks, If we could dishonour the woman, Victimized the woman, The other section could be controlled, That what is being happening for so long, Now is the time.. to make that stop.....


Beautiful poetry written by Vinayana Khurana. Follow her and show support on her instagram (HERE)

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