FAULT ANALYSIS FOR THE REST OF US
MANISHA SHARMAN
Chopped off from her husband’s life like gangrene at 24
Lata had borne a girl
He had climbed to the top of his class at IIT, Delhi
M_ was the only son
Cocksure he is, behind that computer screen,
women wait, extending a hand
No questions asked
no peeping required into his past
IT'S A GIRL
MANISHA SHARMA
Unsure of the tiny kicking, waiting for the gynecologist she rubs her bulging belly, flips glossy magazine pages tastes salt trickle down her throat, grabs her man’s hand she waits for the gynecologist, unsure of the tiny kicking
when finally he arrives and pulls his chair closer to her, the screech is like a thousand ants crawling on her belly
up above the doctor’s seat, there’s a warning,
“no fetal sex determination done here”
one look at him and she knows she should
vanish behind the curtain, slip her body in a sepia gown
covered in cotton, lying on a stretcher, her body
covered in latex, hugging his hands, pale gloves
spread cold jelly on her belly, run a joystick in circles
unsure of the tiny kicking
hidden from her view:
his eyes at the monitor
latex gloves rolling off
water gurgling down the drain
is he now certain of the tiny kicking,
she grabs her husband’s hand?
and all is frozen for her:
the doctor at his desk
the ticking of the clock
the scratch of fountain pen
she is the little girl whose heart skips a beat
when the teacher hands back
her test scored in red
ARDHANGINI
THE WIFE IS ONE HALF OF THE HUSBAND,SHE COMPLETES HIM
MANISHA SHARMA
In her sari each day, ardhangini
she buries insults my father hurls at her
they vanish under cloudy-white chuckles
from cardboard brown faces
of boys, girls in her music classroom,
twenty pairs of big black eyes, glistening black hair, coconut oil aroma
she wishes the cotton candy laughs are safe inside her purse
like the tender red rose tucked back in her black bun
in her ironed silk blouse, ardhangini
is not the music teacher my father presses
between his lips a sable hair brush
moistens the tip, drowns in saffron
paints fire in his tiger on ivory paper
handing him her music teacher’s salary, ardhangini
after dinner one night does not say, “your tiger breeds rage”
I wanted to buy a sari, she says
he says, Don’t you have enough already?
And in the silence that follows ardhangini
searches for her pride
in the glass of water he empties,
in the plate he has just licked clean