Anindita Sengupta's Blogs
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Children of Women: Thoughts
This is no movie [1] about the children of women, about wombs, the aftershock of them, the loving heave of them. This is no poem that can stitch tears in skin, bottle up blood or plasma, cauterise fears–but let me get away from known tropes and images. Children as beacon, children as hope, children as coiled, white serpents at their pitchers of milk [2]. All that sort of... let me instead say these things aloud and you'll know what I mean: a bed in a room, vomit patterns the curtains, the smells of neighbourhood restaurants slam through the nostrils. Later, there is burred tongue, bent knees, a pain that claws you ragged. Everyone does it. It's the most natural thing in the world. Later still, the fear of a million creatures on cloth or skin, in air [3]. The breasts burst as the mumble...
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