By Deepak Kumbhar
That Woman
Half her life at her father's door,
Half her life at her in-laws' door,
Neither here nor there,
Both relationships are her burden.
She collects moments of happiness,
Waits for companionship,
To share it with someone,
She foolishly tries to hold
The moonlight that flows through her hands.
She plasters the walls with her love,
Draws a Rangoli of joy at the door,
Enduring the pain of barrenness,
Suppressing the sobs in her heart
From the abuses and curses in the kitchen.
She grasps and holds every moment,
Decorates everything beautifully,
Cleans and tidies every corner,
Prepares different things for strangers.
In that very house, she keeps searching for herself,
In the battle for her own existence, until she dies.
That woman,
She withers away, withers away, withers away,
Living with a dead heart,
Her life illuminating everyone else's,
But her own lamp goes out.
Motherhood and womanhood,
That's all it is...