Amanda Basaiawmoit

The newspapers-
especially the vernacular,
carry in their front page
a disturbing image;
and in bold letters report,
‘Another Raped’
A number merely added to the sum.
When will meaning be added to them.
I wonder and wait.
Another candle lit evening,
with many faces in the crowd
hoping images capture their concern.
The next day however,
this feigning concern of the world reveals-
Yet another report
Yet another raped
Yet another added to all the others
As I and many others wait for the meaning to arrive.


What can a child do?
When the first protector is an enemy
Had it been an outsider
I can fight, I can shout
but if it’s my own blood
I am doomed to silence.
Shocking the one closest
Stifled my cries
refused to hear my pain
Instead stuffed pills to kill the pain
caused by his thrill.
Broken, battered and hurt
In a few wet words
this heart wrenching hurt
I pour out to you.
Anyone who can hear
my silent cries
Someone to note the blank look
of betrayals by my own
Anyone, someone
with a helping hand
But finding none
Inwardly I ask myself
Why teach me about touch?
Why tell me to differentiate
between the good and bad?
Why me?
Who am I to you?
Why don’t you help?
Why say it’s to be sorted
behind closed doors
in hushed voices.
In this house I call my own
But cannot call it home
Helpless and hopeless
and suffering alone
I grow to hate life
and my very existence
I blame myself
though I was the one who wronged.

Remember when…
The words toll us back
Time stands still
the days of yore comes alive
I relive those moments
takes me to childhood
our outdoor games
the eight stones, kick the can
the fun filled days
no worries, no cares.
takes me to a trip
through adolescence
when smitten by the love bug
I fall in and out naturally
to learn complicated love.
brings to mind the wooden rattlers
whizzing through twists and turns
of our zig zag ways
ferrying both goods and men.
takes me to the cart drawn pony
as the bag rides and I follow
taking the detour
all for childish fun.
and I hear the all too familiar call
hawkers with cheap wares
that I keenly eye
without a penny in hand.
the Friday breaks between
the melodious music
and the Sunday films
which I never understood a word.
takes me on a journey
A flight of simplicity
and innocence
Living my present as the past.

Amanda Basaiawmoit is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Englishshi2 of Shillong College. She is a closet writer for whom poetry is the inner voice in us and a poet is someone who can hear that voice and express it in a way that we all recognise. Coming from the picturesque “Abode of the Clouds” she loves travelling, reading and interacting with people and most often she pens her thought, her experiences in her writing.