Where are my breasts?
I haven’t plucked them out and flung them
to burn the cities to ashes in revenge.
Neither were they severed for cancer
nor loaned to the lady next door
for wearing at a wedding.
Where are my breasts?

As usual last night too, I removed the bra
and made sure they were there.
The doors were closed and barred from inside.
The windows were not opened either.
No sound or movement was heard outside.

Mr. Aniruddhan, my classmate
the Middle East returned husband
of the neighbouring woman
my mother’s relatively very distant uncle
who used to come off and on to meet my father
Mr. Sukumaran, my school teacher
who taught me to find out the parameters of pyramids
the super-fast driver who halts on seeing me
(no matter how fast he speeds)
the squint-eyed superintendent, Mr. Kurup
who always let me sign the attendance register
though I was regularly late
many have an eye on them.

For the last few days
a pair of dark glasses have been following me
a hairy hand stretching out from behind
the measuring tape tightening on the bosom
a camera looking on furtively
the water in the pool turning simply playful
a centipede creeping into the blouse
a spotted cat mutely watching me change
the darkness in the corridor becoming thicker
a hill-gnawing machine passing this way
every morning and evening
my own shadow lengthening unexpectedly
I doubt everyone.

There are knives now
that can cut off enough pounds of flesh
without shedding even a drop of blood
I know.

Breasts are not meant for wise sayings.

A kiss at the most a pinch with the nail
or a bite with teeth.
Poet44 now sings about mother’s lost breast
not about the blown up erect towers.
Where are my breasts?

I intend to advertise.
But, how can one identify one’s breasts
like one’s eyes nose and lips?
Won’t there be a black scar on all breasts!
My breasts, my grannies
two cockroaches that accompanied me to Varanasi
travelling in my blouse.
My breasts, my grandchildren,
two toys fruits vegetables.

I saw my breasts in the TV news in the morning
and also a crowd moving its fingers in between them.
But, that was a long shot of a refugee exodus
along the slope between two hills.

Where are my breasts?
If anyone happens to get hold of them,
please give one to those who-
either their mothers’ lovers’
or that of the woman sitting opposite
in the train compartment
breastfeeding her child-have never sucked a breast in life
and the remaining one to the one-breasted-she ghost45
that used to scare me before my breasts sprouted.

I need two half-shells of a coconut
for playing my role now.

Kannaki is the heroine of the South Indian Tamil classic Chilappathikaram. She, in revenge, set the palace city of Madurai on fire by plucking and throwing her breast when her husband, Kovalan was beheaded by the king alleging theft of the princess’s bracelet which he in fact hadn’t committed.