World Menopause Day is being observed on 18th October worldwide. This year’s theme, as per the International Menopausal Society is “Chronic Pain at Midlife.” Down to Earth magazine states that about 150 million Indian women are currently transitioning through menopause.
The Journal of Menopausal Medicine puts the number at 400 million women across Asia. What our grandmothers and mothers quietly put up with has become a “hot” topic (pun intended) for women “of that age” now. I am one such.
The pandemic compounded the symptoms of perimenopause and menopause for women like me. Though it hasn’t been all fun’n’frolic, one’s creative abilities are certainly thriving – as coping mechanisms and pathways have constantly to be found. Besides, there’s huge freedom in not fitting into societal frames anymore. Some of my friends call that “letting your stomach out.”
These three poems reflect lived experiences rather than data. Leave a note if you resonate? Oh, and please speak to your mother, sister, partner, friend, lover, cousin or aunt if they are going through this? Every woman possibly has a menopause story.
Second Puberty
as if one were not enough
we get to have a “second puberty”
this time it’s no gawky teenage party
hormonal turbulence and absence
metabolic misdemeanours
anxiety – check
insomnia – check
burgeoning belly fat – check
mood crashes – check
morning slumber dates – check
chin hair – haven’t checked
brain smog worse than Delhi lore
period sagas that beat TV soaps
skin that’s drier than the Thar
my patience worn really thin
give me a glimmer, I plead
and my body says
stay with the story for
this plot gets more gory.
This, gentle reader, is the end of the verse but
believe you me, this second puberty is worse!
Lost and Found
They laugh at me
that my clothes
are torn that
I’ve taken to
silence
or speak
out of turn.
I wave my arms
and talk to trees
tuning out the
droning chants of priests.
My songs seem weird
and I sport a beard.
My hair is punk
as a Peepal trunk.
My ears are hooks
on the hearts of books –
dangling poems
and doodled dreams.
My head seems clearly
upside down, they say.
It’s sad she’s gone
all out that way.
She’s lost it
they whisper.
She’ll never see light.
She used to be sharper
when her screws were tight.
I hear you
friends and well-wishers
and wish you well too
but I’ll leave you to your pity
and journey to my city.
There I make music
to the rhythm of my breath.
There I build with empty hands
a pyre for my death.
My heart that
held shadows
like a guarded prison
broke open to become
a sparkling prism.
So it is now
that when light
breaks on me
a million butterflies
at once
come to be.
The Universe is cooking up
rainbows for me
ever since I fell in love
with wanting to be.
So my friends and well-wishers
to mourn, you are not bound.
The one you think forever lost
forever has been found.
Rule of 50
if it doesn’t grip you within p. 50
back to the shelf the novel goes
wrote Nancy Pearl on the art of
reading a novel while staying true
to your heart and if you’re over 50
subtract your age from 100 and within
those many pages, if the novel hasn’t
cast its spell – it’s a death knell.
If, gentle reader, you’re over 50 like me
and have waved limbs to infinity
in pursuit of things never meant to be
could you apply Rule of 50 to your life
here and now to see what goes
so life onward from here gently flows?
