/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.