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The story of an ordinary Indian housewife, whose wishes are considered ‘naturally’ secondary to that of her husband, looking from afar at a happy, ‘free’ woman.
She sat nodding and smiling,
Trying to be happy, busy following.
Successfully deceiving herself and everyone,
The perfect sycophant that she had become.
Finding peace in shade of a man,
For her, who was like a banyan tree.
She was busy in pleasing and nurturing the tree,
For it provided her with shade and societal glee.
So, what if her own paths seemed blurred?
In dignity struggle she was submerged.
She had become immune to pain,
In a life of inertia and fictional gain.
She convinced herself yet once again,
Being a sycophant has its own gains.
Elated by a false sense of security,
She wondered if she was someone’s property?
She then looked at the girl next door,
Wondered how she was so happy?
Creating new paths, celebrating success,
Rejoicing in her freedom, finding herself!
Was it a magic pill she had?
Which in her life she lacked?
One was trained to only clean and cook,
Other was empowered with knowledge and books.
Image source: shutterstock
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