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.