'Pon the edge of reality she stumbles,
Hoping she trips and tumbles,
Her bosom weak and vulnerable,
Her ribs exposing her soul,
Oh of what use are her heavy breasts,
When they fail to protect her meek heart?
Awaiting her fall, she craves surprise,
As would an addict crave his high,
Rightly so they have named each,
For the latter has redemption, not romance,
Lacking awareness, devoid of thought,
Like a flower waiting to be plucked out,
Or a herbivore at the butcher's store,
Anticipating its impending slaughter,
She hopes to be whisked away, swept off her feet,
By a handsome face she knows not,
Why narrate fables of handsome warriors,
Of princes saving girls, being men of valour,
Painting the little girl's heart with false stories,
That she cries in a corner and await a saviour,
Why colour her thoughts, denying her choice,
Separating her from the rest of the race,
Turning women to objects of treasure,
Sometimes even to those of pleasure,
To be respected, adored, owned,
Saved and protected separate from men,
Not humans with thoughts, emotions,
Skills, goals and notions?
Nay, why talk of even long hair and fair skin* as beauty?
To let her grow in her own way is your only duty,
Teach her to live, to fight,
To know and exercise her right,
You needn't give her wings, she has her own ones,
Just stand far enough to let her rise,
Call them humans, people, not merely women,
For, in truth, they are no different from men.
Written between 2nd Sep (after 7:00pm) and 3rd Sep, 2016 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay
*This line is a tribute to my cousin Yash Vardhini who has expressed beautifully, through her paintings, the fact that we humans are inherently racist when it comes to skin colour.
An alternative thought, as pointed out to me by Sivasakthya M, my junior and friend, is presented here.
While I am inclined to agree, to the points pointed out there, I do not know how many others will. It looks like a third level above chauvenism and gender equality - a mature acceptance of how things are. I have never been a woman and I shall never know what it is like to be one - I am of course intrigued by the life they lead - something that is reflected in my writing, but I admit to myself and to you, that all these will remain as speculations.
Further, I see that my notions are yet to improve, but I will embrace the process and let it happen as and when it does.
To this end, I leave this poem intact as a monument of my current thought - call it liberal or immature.
Hoping she trips and tumbles,
Her bosom weak and vulnerable,
Her ribs exposing her soul,
Oh of what use are her heavy breasts,
When they fail to protect her meek heart?
Awaiting her fall, she craves surprise,
As would an addict crave his high,
Rightly so they have named each,
For the latter has redemption, not romance,
Like a flower waiting to be plucked out,
Or a herbivore at the butcher's store,
Anticipating its impending slaughter,
She hopes to be whisked away, swept off her feet,
By a handsome face she knows not,
Why narrate fables of handsome warriors,
Of princes saving girls, being men of valour,
Painting the little girl's heart with false stories,
That she cries in a corner and await a saviour,
Why colour her thoughts, denying her choice,
Separating her from the rest of the race,
Turning women to objects of treasure,
Sometimes even to those of pleasure,
To be respected, adored, owned,
Saved and protected separate from men,
Not humans with thoughts, emotions,
Skills, goals and notions?
Nay, why talk of even long hair and fair skin* as beauty?
To let her grow in her own way is your only duty,
Teach her to live, to fight,
To know and exercise her right,
You needn't give her wings, she has her own ones,
Just stand far enough to let her rise,
Call them humans, people, not merely women,
For, in truth, they are no different from men.
Written between 2nd Sep (after 7:00pm) and 3rd Sep, 2016 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay
*This line is a tribute to my cousin Yash Vardhini who has expressed beautifully, through her paintings, the fact that we humans are inherently racist when it comes to skin colour.
An alternative thought, as pointed out to me by Sivasakthya M, my junior and friend, is presented here.
While I am inclined to agree, to the points pointed out there, I do not know how many others will. It looks like a third level above chauvenism and gender equality - a mature acceptance of how things are. I have never been a woman and I shall never know what it is like to be one - I am of course intrigued by the life they lead - something that is reflected in my writing, but I admit to myself and to you, that all these will remain as speculations.
Further, I see that my notions are yet to improve, but I will embrace the process and let it happen as and when it does.
To this end, I leave this poem intact as a monument of my current thought - call it liberal or immature.
Excellent one Raam
ReplyDeleteRaam, your writing skills and expression of thoughts are amazing.
ReplyDeleteI really appreciate the effort taken by you in addressing and creating awareness on such issues.
I am so proud of you.