Clueless Ink

One fine rainy day,

we had to cancel our biking around the lake plans,

and instead,

I found myself getting treated for a Bartholin’s cyst.

They slid a one-inch needle into my vagina,

to numb it.

It was so painful.

They cut it, drained it,

and still, the pain clung to me.

Pain layered over pain.

The doctor’s voice was comforting,

friendly,

gentle,

walking me through each step.

The nurse held my hand,

her grip steady, warm,

both of them trying their best to ease it down.

When it was over,

I cried.

Yes, my body cried for itself.

But on my way back home,

my heart cried harder

for the unlucky, beautiful women,

our Nirbhayas,

who bore far worse,

split open by demons.

They endured all that pain,

all that rage,

with no numbing,

only pain that seeped into their bones.

No hand to hold,

only cold, greasy ones around them.

No consent,

only anger forced upon them.

If a single inch of needle, with consent,

was this hard for me,

how did she bear it?

I wish we had small robots inside our vaginas,

silent guards, bouncers,

ready to inject poison

at the first touch without consent.

I wish we carried pythons down there.

Or at least,

if not poison,

a first version with a numbing agent,

“VagiNO 1.0”

a dose of forgetfulness,

a flood of curated stories,

lies,

anything to spare her that pain.

All I’m asking is:

Either give us a vagina wrapped in poison,

or the memory of a goldfish.

But one day,

even our state of amnesia or our poison would give up.

We’d grow tired of forgetting,

tired of fighting,

because that’s not us.

So I wish for something simpler.

A world without men,

if even a fraction of women

must bear this.

Let the world burn to ash,

if even one of us

must live through this.

Let this world end.