chameli.. oh my chameli..

so you say believe in women's rights.. so you say you do your part for the earth.. so you think women and the earth have made progress in the last twenty or so years.. think again - 'cus here comes roops and his chainsaw to cut you down to size..

okk... here's my radical social theory, for which, in times past, i probably would have been burned at the stake, or at least forced to live on the outskirts of good society.. you can call it Patric's Law of the Conservation of Male Anger: the level of hostility and violence against the feminine in our patriarchal system always stays the same; only its form changes.. look - dominator males are pissed.. WHY?

because all over the globe, in ways too numerous to mention, they are being prevented from doing what they are just straining at their bits to do: penetrate, dominate and destroy the feminine.. H-bombs are being dismantled, missiles are being sold for scrap, nuclear power is the last refuge of the suicidal; women in increasing numbers are being educated, refusing to serve as breeding machines, fighting back against rape, incest and battering; people everywhere are beginning to question things that only a few years ago were taken for granted-from zoos to pesticide use, from meat eating to fur wearing, from the viability of war to the philosophical basis of Christianity.. what is there to do? where oh where will the anger be released?

this is that woman.. my chameli.. a woman overwhelmed by the disempowering womanhood.. who has gone into the deep.. into her body and soul.. who has seen her own death and is reborn.. to feel, to touch, to love, to give life! she cries..

she no longer running from intimacy.. shez removed her makeup and traded it for the night.. black.. thats what the moon's face has turned for her.. dreams have become demons..

herez the poem by Azka, on this woman.. my chameli.. she cries..

Trade of my soul

Back when i was fifteen father sent me in a dirty car
Hundred dollars to get rid of a burden which bought him a little tar
More space under the roof and one less mouth to feed everyday
There started my odyssey with trading a soul on that hazy day.

As a gal I
Use to recline on a motherly lap,dreaming of the stories which she everyday said
And today I
recline with an unknown man,for a wretched work which fetches me bread
As a gal I
Use to smile, forseeing my future in a little home with my love beside
And today I
carry a veneered smile, with vultures hovering on a body which has died.

One blink a gal,another a swine
I Hate the body on whom they dine
Half draped jazzy, other half unclad
With every beat, i fear myself dead
Gaudy dresses and lips wearing pink
A gaze decides which bed to stink
Another torment ripping my body, Soul dying with every ride
Keepin awake all night, why my God is prejudiced

The white collar , the blue collar
The journalist, the masses or the scholar
Everynight they ll turn up, hiding their faces behind the cover.
Askance on their faces, lust in their eyes cause
I am the woman of the street, I am the bawd
I am never an issue,i am never talked.
Stopped wondering of my fight
Stopped weeping endlessly night after night
No more fear of shadows in the rear
Acceded i have, with a silent tear.

- Azka Saiyed