Little Islands and One Large Prison

About Shilpi Das

"Witch, scholar, poet, dreamer, and the rest..."
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Shilpi Das is currently doing her doctoral research on Gender Question in Nationalist Art and Literature : Indian context. She is a lover of art, music and literature. She is passionate about writing for she feels that writing has an emancipatory power.

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It was Clear Light of the Day in Kalkatta and all things were bright and beautiful and
Alice was in her Wonderland in search of the Artists of Disappearance
Immersed deeply in the paintings of her My Fair Lady(s)
wondering what a piece of work she is!
Hardly did she know that these violet delights is going to have violet ends,
That she would find herself like a patient etherized upon a table.
When the evening was spread was out against the sky she experienced a Strange Meeting.
He was busy narrating his musical tale which was full of sound and fury signifying nothing and
Alice felt herself like a walking shadow trying to break That Long Silence.
Till now she had a feeling that Dark Holds No Terrors
but who knew darkness is reigned by the same nature who is red in tooth and claw.
He had a flowering face.
Having perfected his disguise slowly he unveiled his serpent heart
He was a damned saint, an honourable villain.
It was Eleven Minutes and she remained tongue-tied.
She became a piece of meat in his unworthiest hands.
He wanted to Play Games at Twilight
which made her feel locked In Custody.
Hardly had he set himself to petrify her Growing Stone when the Uber blocked, “Cry, the Peacock”.
She revisited her memory of fear. She felt a funeral in her brain.
She wept and fasted and wept and prayed.
Walking across the Desolate Field unable to Howl she stood before the shore of the Ocean of Life
whose waves she dared not to touch,
For he was silently asleep, all alone, in the secret chamber of her heart,
For she believed that heard melodies are sweet but those unheard are sweeter.
The darkness that trembled her was cheerily erased by the sound of the waves.
He filled her heart with music and did not let the notes of her lyre be silent.
Now music did hit her, she felt no pain.
Though the mourners kept treading to and fro
She had her pen which proved itself to be mightier than the sword.
Now she sings of her own self
Of Life immense in passion, pulse and power.


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