FUMES OF COPPER BREATH
darshanika panda
The gilded cage yawns open,
creeking on rusted hinges,
soiled with fingerprints
of vile, twisted hands.
Inside that, a bird: half-ember, half-ash
slowly counts its final breaths,
its wings, feeble prayers against the bars,
longing for freedom since ages.
The heavens, startled at this sight,
spill their grief as rain;
each drop a hymn
to heal the bird’s broken spirit.
In this arc of life,
the bird draws strength from the rain
and dissolves:
into fumes of freedom
remembering the wise words of its mother-
a nest half-made
is any day better
than a gilded cage.
PARACETAMOL AND PATRIARCHY
Darshanika panda
My mother and I are never on the same page.
She tucks jasmine into her hair,
I deck my bun with irises.
She savours batata wada,
I reach for french fries with mayonnaise.
She listens to Kishore da,
I sway to Cigarettes After Sex.
She wakes at 5 a.m., to tend to a family of seven;
I linger past 2 a.m., wrestling unfinished business.
She runs on paracetamol and pain,
I collapse at the sight of blood from scrapes.
She surrenders her life without a word,
I calculate my losses at the end of every deal.
She swallows the silence
of a world that never asks about her day,
I demand to be heard
when my voice is ignored in a room of ten.
My mother and I are not the same.
Yet an invisible red thread
ties our fates at the wrist.
She was never given the choice
to sing, dance, and live unrestrained;
I negotiate my worth daily
inside glass-walled offices.
She drowned her dreams in rotis,
I bartered mine away
to rise the ladder of gain.
She married a “kind” man
who forgot her sacrifices;
I settled for situationships with
emotionally unavailable men.
And yet,
we tread the same road.
Both of us fighting a rigged system
with different weapons.
Both of us preserving dignity:
hers folded into salwars,
mine buttoned into formal pants.
Both of us smiling for the world
as if survival itself were a performance.
Both of us hoarding coins,
preparing for loneliness
on a rainy day.
Both of us sipping chai,
trading stories of chachas
and idiotic bosses.
In the end, we are women,
crushed to pebbles
under the weight of patriarchy,
yet we refuse to wither in the wind.
She finds her joy
in making til laddoos.
I find mine
fermenting jars of kimchi.
GLOSSARY:
Batata Wada – a popular Indian street snack, just like spiced potato fritters
Kishore da – affectionate reference to legendary Indian playback singer Kishore Kumar
Rotis – Indian flatbreads
Salwars – traditional South Asian trousers
Chai – Indian style milk tea
Chachas – uncles
Til Laddoos – sweet sesame seed confections
Kimchi – fermented Korean dish of spiced cabbage
Photo: Bernd Dittrich
Read our “Camouflage” issue in full
RAWGUE.’s 4th issue delved into the grey, moody, and cold atmosphere of winter. Yet it did not sink into the depths of madness or depression. Instead, it embraced this season of hibernation, allowing 31 artists from all over the world to present their timid work beneath a veil of quiet beauty.
Darshanika Panda is an Indian poet, lawyer, socio-legal researcher, and classical dancer. Drawing from the intersections of art, academia, and advocacy, her work explores themes such as womanhood, patriarchy, belonging, vulnerability, and the contradictions of contemporary life through emotionally rooted and culturally textured imagery. Much of her writing reflects an ongoing attempt to make sense of the vastness of human existence while navigating the confines of rigid social and professional structures. She often jests that she is the “2 a.m. Seneca,” trapped inside the body of a functioning member of the capitalist society.
