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Rakta Punje Genthe Yawya Machhi.
(A Fly Stuck in Blood and Pus)

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Here I am; I am a girl. I am forty years. What else is left in the life of a woman, when she gets such an age as forty? Everything has come to the end in my life too. No hope, no passion is left in me. The days to get a man in life are gone. My skin is no longer tight and has developed wrinkles. All expectations are over. But look, my life has not got any sweet and sour taste of family life.
In these forty years I am with others and among others; but my life is not like those of all others. I am not like other people. Here is my life ebbing out; is there anything still to make it full?
Thirst has lurched me all through life, but I could not quench it even a drop. What happened is completely different from what I wanted.
Like others, I wanted to get a life--family life, conjugal life, life with a man. It did not come--did not come. My life did not get the shape like those of others. It got different from those of the other people. A very different type it got--filled with hatred, slippery with tears, covered with shame. Did I want anything like this? Does anyone want any such thing?
Nobody is like me. Though I wanted to be like all others, I could not. Now when I have reached my forty, I ask myself frequently, “Listen to me, my dear life; why have you become such abnormal and ugly?”
“Why didn’t you get days and nights, sleep and awakening, home and a household?”
“Why didn’t you become like others? What’s wrong with you? What guilt did you commit? Where is your male partner--your own man--man for ever? Where is the honor in your life? Look, how you lack prestige. You do not have any glory. Does anybody have such a life?”
Nobody is my husband. I am not the wife of anybody. I do not belong to any family. I am a woman. The door of conjugal life did not open; although it was me to whom there was a fair possibility of its opening. It was me who did not reach the routine bed of conjugal life, though there was every possibility. It was again me for whom finding oneself under a man was very much a near possibility, but still did not happen.
How deep my attraction was for man! What an urge my body used to bear for man! So many men came and went out like short-lived flashes of lightning in my life! So many times my mind felt thirst for love! But nothing remained. Nothing had come forever-- neither love nor man. The whole youth of my life was spent with the thirst for man. I have been cheated in so many ways by men; I have suffered tremendously at the hands of men. But look, my heart yet even cries for getting a man; even yet my body--with all its guilt--laments for not getting a man.
My body intensely yarns for the smell of a man. My eyes peep for casting a look at the smile of a man. My ears turn restless to hear the sounds of the flirtation of a man. My body calls–come come come. My mind does the same- come come come.
Where is the man--my own man? He, who goes, goes forever. Which has broken has broken forever. Which has come to the end, has ended forever. Yet, the mind does not want to accept any consolation. Why doesn’t the poor mind want to come to sense! It seems that he, my man, will come, must come. Will not the good time come someday-- the days of complete dependence on my man? Oh no. it will not come, never come. The period of time in my life for coming of those days has ended. Only the story of the days has remained. There is only ---------.
I am treading a path for a long time--it is forty years! While moving in my life it comes to my mind every moment that I do not feel like moving any more. I do not want to do anything any more. I should stop now. Now, I should vanish in the dark. Oh feet, my moving feet, stop. You should stop now. After stopping, be a part of earth, stunned earth, motionless earth, dark and dumb earth.
My life is not what is usually called normal. None of our family got such traditional normalcy. My life is not normal; my younger brother’s is not, my father’s is not, nor even my grandmother had got it- my great grandmother did not get it.
My life is crooked, full of blind alleys; and my body bears disease--disease of catching fire, a disease to taste myself. Nobody except me knows it. While suffering the twists of this hidden disease, my soul feels twisted with hatred.
Again, all on a sudden, splashing waves of hot water occur. I cannot explain how well I feel getting the bite of that disease. I am fond of the warmth of that fire. On the one hand, there are urges for man; on the other, there is another thing in me- it is that filthy disease. Oh, what a situation I make during that period of unbearable ness! What I have been doing then! Oh, no way, no way to express it.
I feel dirty. I feel hatred against me. I am enveloped by disease, I am dirty. I am impure. I am like a fly--a fly stuck in blood and pus. I am filthy, detestable.
Does what has happened to me happen to anybody else? Who knows! Does anybody else bear this disease--disease of nasty passion and urges--like me? Who knows!
Listen everybody--my disease is not an ordinary or common one. It is not a holy and open disease like yours. I am unholy; my disease makes me it. There is no way to tell about what has happened to me. I tell, still I tell. I want to tell that my disease is to enjoy myself. My disease is to strain me, to knead, to squeeze, to cross one leg by another, starting to contort repeatedly the breasts--and thus from being hot to getting cold- this is the nature of my disease. And this is only one side. On the other side, I have a different urge. It is urge for getting male persons.
Here is the body--my body—here. There is flesh, there is hair; there is skin which covers bones, blood, flesh, veins. There are ups and downs here in flesh; but nowhere is fire here. But look, what a flame jumps up repeatedly in my flesh, in the layers of flesh!
It gets extinguished at one moment, again it becomes blazing--starts flickering, jumping and burning in my body. There is fire everywhere in me--my body is fire then.
Here is my tongue--it is in my mouth--calm and quite- no movement, no restlessness- it lies quite static. Again, within a moment, it becomes awfully restless- moves intensely and raises uproar. Then sound comes nonstop--words appear spontaneously--my tongue creates speech continuously--words over words.
Here, in this area of my tongue, it is completely all on a sudden that there comes a slippery tide--I do not know from where. My tongue starts slipping into it, and both of my lips become puffy--they seem to be blooming–my lips bloom into Kadam flowers.
What does the Shol fish--my tongue--floating on the stream, and fully puffy Kadam, want? Does it want the lips of a man--want the tumult of mad teeth of him- want the fire of his bite. A fire blazes up in my body for such fire.
Look, how cool and restful an earthenware pitcher full with water is! Such two pitchers are on my chest--restful, sleepy, cool pitchers! But, from where do I get peace? Every now and then, both of the cool pitchers become heated all on a sudden. Only want the fire of wriggle--burning and groaning--heated pitchers with raised neck here on the chest of my body.
This is the disease in my body. Is it a disease for a few days? It is there for a long, long time. For a long time my days have been passing through burning up and going out—days have been passing.
Look, here is my body; it burns up, goes out again, flares up. I remain scared about it terribly! Nobody can come to know about that fire. If they can perceive, it will be a matter of great shame! What it is is okay- whatever is here is a private matter of mine- oh! But people should not come to know it. Knowing by them is the real matter of shame. If nobody can perceive- it is fine- everything is fine.
I move to keep everything okay. Though there are heavy loads on by body--load of fire, load of making it go out, load of getting drenched in a slippery tide and still falling asleep motionless, again the load of not keeping that in mind after waking up.
I do not feel well, well at all, for anything--as I am thus having food, doing miscellaneous things, regretting during power-cut, checking answer scripts of my students, taking nap and sleeping, repairing the hooks of my blouse--trying to keep myself busy with work, yet my days do not want to pass- nights do not come to end.
Whenever it is nine in the morning, ten o’ clock never wants to come. After ten, eleven seems not to appear. My eyes reach the watch every moment. The watch runs, but time seems never to end. If I sleep at ten at night, I see it is only twelve at midnight after having a long sleep. I look at the long, dark, never-ending night with sleepless eyes.
How long day’s are- how tremendously long nights are! My body sometimes turns upward, downward sometimes, sometimes bid get for nothing; something fall flat on its face in such endless days and nights.