Kenneth Steven Sherill, Shanta Acharya" />
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Literature, PoetryMarch 4, 2014

Ambala

Eenie Meanie Miney Mo V by Kenneth Steven Sherill

Eenie Meanie Miney Mo V by Kenneth Steven Sherill

 

She burst into my room dancing, humming,

a force of nature, her dark skin gleaming,

 

cleaving me with her beauty’s pulse.

I sat face-masked, half-naked waxing my legs.

 

Seeing an apology writ large on her face,

holding back the waterfall of words from her lips,

 

I said, it’s alright, thought I’d locked the door.

You can walk into my room any time, she bowed

 

her statuesque body folding in on itself in greeting,

my homesickness banished by her peace offering.

 

I, having known the random kindness of strangers,

found life in a female student dorm full of surprises.

 

The day I knocked on her door, but did not wait

for Ambala’s regal Entre summoning me in,

 

I was unprepared to find her in front of a mirror

peering deep inside herself. Is this a new tantric

 

yoga posture I was unaware of? But the stain

on the patterned rug, the pain on her face

 

told a different story. It hurts, she whispered,

her legs splayed as if giving birth.

 

I get cramps and back-pain too, I sympathized

thinking she was suffering from period cramps.

 

No, this is different, this is the unkindest cut …

nothing like a male circumcision

 

she sighed as I caught sight of her excision,

this is hell on earth, a life of humiliation,

 

her wound, her shame, her secret laceration

revealed as she lay writhing on the floor.

 

Can I do anything for you? I asked aghast

thinking there but for the grace of God…

 

Hold my hand, be my best friend forever.

Apart from the women in my family, no other

 

human has seen me like this – naked, mutilated.

Yet my ordeal is nothing compared to the horror

 

of piercing, pricking, cutting, sewing, scraping, burning.

I’ve survived placing my faith in life, change.

 

Her head resting on my lap, our fingers locked

I sat there dreaming of a world without suffering

~ Shanta Acharya

 

Shanta Acharya was born and educated in India. The author of nine books, her latest collection of poems is ‘Dreams That Spell the Light’ (2010). She is currently working on three of her forthcoming books. Her poems, articles and reviews have appeared in major publications in the UK, the US, and India and are available on her website.

Editorial Note: Ambala is an African girl’s name that means “scar”. In many Indian languages, Ambala refers to a mother or any compassionate figure.

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Indian poetryPoem of the WeekpoetryShanta Acharya

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One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

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