The girl in Saree
A girl of eighteen,clad in saree,
Head covered and bowed down.
Seemingly happy with the new rings,
They were her little crowns.
To me,an observer,it was however a pitiful sight.
To her ‘the crown’,to me a weapon that killed her flights.
Surrounded by many such hands and by many such rings.
To them their crowns,to me:
A readymade decision,
A symbol of restrictions,
A handed down infliction.
This girl of nineteen clad in saree,
Head covered and bowed down.
Seemingly happy with her daily growing pot-belly,
That was her little crown.
To me,an observer,it was however a heinous crime.
To her ‘a crown’,to me the wrath of time.
Today an observer,tomorrow I can be that hand.
The weight of the ring,more than I can withstand.
I have survived till now in this hopeless land,
But that I do not fear the same fate,i can not pretend.
This girl of twenty,clad in saree,
Head covered and bowed down.
Seemingly happy with the overjoyed toddler,
A glimpse of shattered dreams visible in her eyes.
That was her little but over-burdened crown.
To me,an observer,in my utopian world,i see independence and opportunities.
I see winged flights of dreams and hopes.
I see dancers,doctors,writers and many more.
To them,an out of reach horizon,to me a beautiful reality.
-simran.
