Dead Superwoman

 

Torquoise scarf, Pom-pom ornamented khussa

       flailing her legs on the bike 

A lady with perfectly set hair, on a bluetooth phone in a polished car

Women in dusky Chadors, helping their next-of-kin up the endless ladder of tourniquet: the overhead pedestrian bridge 

A duo, with their hair in a bun, strays sticking out

Heading home, zig-zagging through the rush hour after a day of manicuring other women’s delicate finger nails,  

Twenty-something with hair now showing hints of silver, Jhumkas dancing in the post-precipitation wind,

breathing the last bit of freedom.

Before they go home,

 

To a stack of dishes, 

Piles of homework, 

Supper preparations, 

That if isn’t served on time; isn’t flavoured enough; isn’t warm enough

Will bear the brunt of the SuperWoman Syndrome

Abuses hurled,

Blue-purple bruises, 

A headless torso, 

Tell me again how home is the safest place for a woman. 

Noor

Love blinds women, they say
He’s not all bad, 
He’ll come around, I know he will 
Someday too soon, when I’ve given him my mind, body and soul 
Love changes everything
His rage: an expression of masculinity 
The workings of his lineage 
Anger is instinctive, isn’t it? 
Titular perhaps 
Perhaps it will wash away,
Like the ocean does to a cliffed coast 

Perhaps there is another horizon 
Patience is a virtue that will sail us through 
To prairies and vineyards 

Perhaps.