The Woman with a Cigarette
Arundhati’s photograph
a cigarette between her fingers
and suddenly the world panicked
caught naked
in the mirror of its own hypocrisy
The moment a woman inhales
she is stamped
immoral
characterless
a whore
shameless
loose
loud-mouthed
brazen
as if the smoke itself
could etch her soul
into disgrace
Your outrage reveals
what still burns within you
patriarchy’s throne
the Manusmriti buried
like live coal
in your chest
How strange
a man smokes,
blows rings into the air
and it is leisure
A woman smokes
and it is sin
Nehru’s cigarette was culture
Che Guevara’s smoke
revolution
But from a woman’s lips
the same smoke
is a crime
I am not astonished
I have seen women of my lanes
the aunt with a bidi in her blouse pocket,
the old grandmother
sitting on the doorstep
lighting up
No feminism
no slogans of freedom
no revolution in their throats
only a small treaty with fatigue
or an evening circle
to share sorrow and laughter
Manto once wrote:
cigarettes destroy lungs
not character
Yet your masculinity is so fragile
a single picture can shake it
Yes, smoke is poison,
everyone knows this
but it is only a woman’s smoke
that chokes you
It isn’t smoke you fear at all
It is the mirror in your own mind
where the Manusmriti
still smolders
refusing to die