“Cacti Left to Bloom” by Purabi Bhattacharya

Purabi Bhattacharya, a native of Shillong in Northeast India, currently resides and works in Gujarat, India. She is an accomplished writer and poet, with more than two decades of experience in teaching and writing. As a published author under Writers Workshop India, she has two collections of poems and another collection scheduled for release by the same publisher. Purabi also serves as a book reviewer for the literary e-journal Muse India. Her writings can be found in 'livewire' and 'And Other Poems' and have been featured in the anthology "Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English 2021." To explore her works further, please refer to the provided links.

A Word from the Author:

The poem titled 'The Cartographer of This Land Leaves Cactus to Bloom' is dedicated to rape survivors and their fight for justice, inspired by the survivor of the Muzaffarnagar rape case in Uttar Pradesh, India. Her relentless ten-year battle culminated in a court verdict that convicted two offenders, although she was fortunate as most rape accused in India escape punishment. Despite the exhaustive external battles that a rape victim endures, the internal war continues, leaving lasting scars in this lifetime. Writing poetry about rape or any form of violation is an impossible task, but it serves to document these experiences for future generations

---

“I was scared all the time. They said drop the case. I did not relent,”

read a headline of a newspaper.

You read the story to the final line. Full stop.

You run, race away, deify silence, playing the gardener.

With flooded eyes you dig deep into the earth;

let it soak in the dirty blood,

streaming out of the cunt.

With halting, jarring language,

stories of incredible pain, preserved with black ink and salt;

you let your tears scribble upon the daily headline.

White no longer chastens.

Every blot bonds. Salt. Sweat. Sanguine fluid;

Your innards now a man-modelled map;

the cartographer of this land plants a cactus to bloom.

You become the stockpile safekeeping his spit and his debris;

Once a pluviophile, you have become deadpan to petrichor

Soon the nights blur. In a dark sky, a well star lit takes pity;

its stillness turns you deaf. You are invisible.

With each dawn, when you open your eyes, you know

a brook, a stream, a river, a sea has no closure for you.