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The worth of a girl

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/This is one of the poems I found from the year 2021, while gathering my writing. I decided to post them to document my growth.


‘Oh, so you're the smart type,

You must make your parents proud.

But can you do the work?'

I stared at the woman dumbfounded.

She smiled at me as if asking an obvious question.

Does writing and reading not count as work?

But little did I realize that the woman and I,

Are not on the same planet,

Let alone on the page.

Her world is surrounded by cookpots and gossip,

Ladles and murmuring ladies.

I look at her with respect

Yet

Why don't I get the same

in my set?

'Can you rephrase it please?'

My frankness surprises her,

But inside she is pleased

For those eyes veiled in envy

Can do little but reveal.

She opens her mouth but I already know

What she means.

How well can I make tea?

Arrange the loose pillows on the couch

Not slouch,

dust the windows and sheets

Clean your mess after you leave.

She says if I care after my family?

In my mind I say yes and then refrain

For her definition and mine

would not be the same.

My emotional support does not matter

But did I beat the carpet?

Scrub the platter?

Why is it that when a person serves

She has to bow low?

After doing all the work

Hope at the mercy of others

To acknowledge your woes.

'Nay,' She says interrupting my thoughts,

'To help the people in your family?'

'How so?' I lose my temper but

The shriek is inside my mind.

To carry their burdens?

When there is nobody to help me.

Their excuse is that my worries

Are beyond their reach.

Then what must I do?

Shrink to comfort them, cater their ego.

The accusers forget

that when the reigns of my sorrows

Get out of control,

It is me weeping on the floor

All alone.

Yet I don't complain to the woman.

I am not as brash

To distribute my misery

Hoping for their mercy.

I stand my ground and weaken hers.

'What is finesse?' I ask

'Your ability to hide emotions.'

She replies on instinct.

I have caught her by the arms.

'What is grace?' I ask.

'Your ability to suppress sorrow,

And veil it with a smile.'

I stand up.

'My duty is to divide my heart

Yet a boy my companion is praised at being carefree.

If he does not trouble you,

Then he cares for you.

But I, I must bow,

For you to feel welcomed

Into a home I did not invite you.

I raise my hands in defeat,

In the end all my worth rests on

Is how well I gave you

The bloody cup of tea.

My character decided

On that warm brown liquid

That you gulp voraciously.

The cup in my hand tinkers

Against the saucer

As my hand shivers

With rage.

The warmth of the drink

You relish,

I wonder how will you feel

As it splashes on your face.

I am half convinced to discover

Yet my trembling hands, I recover.

I startle back to reality

And bring my hands together in farewell.

As I see the plump old woman

Her curves Jutting out from the tight purple salwar kurta

Walking down the lane from my window.

I smile and think to myself

That she wouldn't dare,

No, her voice wouldn't echo through the

Walls of my house

The house that I will build

One in which I would not bow

To make you feel welcome

And I will drink that bloody cup of tea

however I please.

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