Congratulations

Mridula Sharma

Please be advised that this poem contains graphic depictions of sexual violence, harm and abuse.

Yesterday was the 16th day
of December and my sister
Panchali had gone outside
to buy nail paint for
Amma’s birthday. They say
women in India are scared
to leave their homes at night;
but we are prostitutes
and the soothing glare of
the moonlight from the sky
is our only respite from the
physical violence of
some of our clients.

Today, our neighbours told
us that they saw policemen on
national television channels —
when they were sweeping
and mopping in their
masters’ houses —
announce that Panchali’s
dismembered body has
been dumped on a
roadside. The body is
covered with the semen of
five different men.

College students are organising
candle-light marches to
pay respects to our Panchali
who never received an iota
of recognition while she was
alive because our profession,
her profession, is filthy and gross.
Celebrities are sharing their
sympathies and secretly
wondering whether their fifty-eight
bodyguards can ensure the
protection of their bodies.
Amma has been crying since
the reporters rushed inside
our one-bedroom apartment
with questions that we don’t
have the answers to.
The Chief Minister is making
empty promises and
some voices on television
are exclaiming that decent
Indian women do not leave
their houses at night.

A man in a shiny black suit tells us that
we must conceal our profession,
Panchali’s profession,
from the court because justice
has terms and conditions
and social approval happens to be one.

Nobody has asked us how we
feel and nobody really cares
who Panchali is. Was.
Panchali was a woman,
nay, a prostitute.
Now, she is a dead victim;
an object well-used for
masculine ejaculation;
a court case wrapped in
a police file; a topic for
discussion in school seminars
that ask girls to wear pants
instead of skirts;
a theme for research conferences
on women’s studies; an idiot
who shouldn’t have stepped
out at night because decent
Indian women don’t do that.

It is now afternoon and the pimp
enters the house and tells me that
I need to work harder today because
Panchali’s clients are now mine.
He murmurs ‘congratulations’
and walks away.

On ‘Congratulations’

A young woman was gang-raped on December 16, 2012, in India. This poem reckons with her story and other stories like hers.

‘Panchali’ is another name for ‘Draupadi’, a mythological figure who was almost disrobed in public by the cousin brother of her five husbands. In this poem, I have integrated the symbols from these instances as well as incorporated the sexual politics associated with popular discourse on sex work.

Poetry-2jfa25 November 20201 Comment