The Histrionics Of Kamala Das Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

Kamala Das is more a stage artiste than a common woman,
A housewife or a homemaker,
As the house not her periphery
To draw the Lakshamanrekha for her,
A housewife with the broomstick threatening,
Doing politics and blackmailing her simple husband,
A homemaker not but a destroyer
As to be a feminist her first priority.

A villagerly quarrelsome wife not, but an overambitious wife,
Trespassing Juliet, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth and Portia,
A Delilah, a Lamia is she,
So dangerous and venomous,
Nagging and bragging in her vanity,
An urban townsmanly woman,
Calling herself pure and chaste
And her husband wrong
And her story like the one from Panchtantra,
Budhoo The Weaver.

The husband introducing her, encouraging to write
But she not of her husband
After seeing the world,
After getting the things from
And being introduced to
And the caravan of novice pseudo-Indian critics after her
Supervising so many research works
On her slender and slim volumes of poetry,
I mean the bad verses.

Her summer a sexual summer,
The heat, sweating and temperature of the body,
Not a description of the season,
Her summer full with the noonday dreams and wet siestas of love,
Summerday heat experienced otherwise
And man-woman relationship closing the door,
Whispering and conspiring in coquetery.