By Poulomi Bhattacharya
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Teaching a lass to be a woman,
Calm and dignified, not volatile,
Forced obedience served on a platter
Of grade cards and tailored uniforms,
It's a spiral gyre of discipline,
majestically imposed, not curated.
They teach us what to memorise,
And the just length of our skirts,
But deny us the right to ask why.
They inform us what is forbidden,
But often dare not delve deep
Into its inevitability in shaping us.
My desires are nipped passively,
My melancholy declared fake,
My aspirations defined not by me,
My opinions don't matter, they say.
They told me to appear pretty,
And forget how alluring choice is,
To seek comfort over ambition,
To seek his money and not my own,
To reek of someone else’s aspirations,
Spoon-fed into being mine.
Latest game out of peer pressure,
Coloured lips as per viral trend,
I look at him because they told me to,
Toppers notes noted down without question,
I am continuously denied my right to rebel;
To question what is mostly obvious but isn’t,
Why my surname is not of my mother’s,
And why my sister can marry
Without owning a home of her own,
Why my brother hides his tears,
Or never succumbs to his fears.
Why my male friend must be my lover,
Why my political view must be of my father’s,
Or why should I even crave to be a mother.
Education stumbles to educate me,
It is ripped apart, raw and unhinged;
My nonchalance glorifies,
My trauma piles up,
My amorous fallacies gulped down,
It only teaches me how it taught others,
It only fails me how it fails everyone,
No way to learn how I love,
No way to unlearn what not to tolerate,
Teach me, but not belittle me,
For I am here to learn about myself,
For I am here to put myself first,
For I am here to be the lover
and not just be his beloved,
The outer world can wait,
It’s rules must evaporate
As it witnesses my becoming.