I don’t see myself in the mirror now,
Like a body which they said I should be.
An hourglass-shaped beauty,
Glimmering, no bruises.
Eyes looking down as it shows woman elegance,
As glancing upwards is facing societies fence.
The saree draped around, it should be done in a certain way,
As the gap between is magnificence,
must be looking like the embodiment, a Murat,
Every curve should reveal contentment, misplaced.
The woman who told me so wasn’t a nightmare,
A lot of conspiracy wrapped in my older version.
I felt pity for her, and then I draped my saree again,
She unavoidably saw me and muttered,
Is your saree too tight or you are making it tighter?
I retorted, I believe it’s contaminated.
Discerning me with her big brown eyes,
She snatched it from me, told me I ain’t the one having this liberty.
While she sauntered away from me,
I asked her to do her plates again,
Yelling at me subconsciously, she left.
I laughed a little harder that day,
As she came back to advise me not to talk this way.
Apologising with the utmost respect,
I inquired to her of all the myth,
she’s been emerging with.
Why saree should show the body, why we have to allure the men?
Without questioning her self she spoke
A woman is a mere body,
having a dominative gender above,
With no equal rights, we are their devotees.
I felt that pain in her voice that day,
I wish I would be more brutally honest if I say,
The only thought that hit me that day,
Was this lady is the last thing I wanted to be,
And my body is the only truth that I should be devoting.