You’ll see her with a glass of whiskey at the bar
In a black dress and, red lips.
You’ll find her drenched in sweat,
Walking out of the gym at seven the next morning.
She drapes a saree perfectly, you’ll praise
But then you’ll measure her integrity
Inversely on the distance between her knees
And the hemline of her miniskirt.
She leads meetings and projects;
Earns awards and, promotions,
But you’ll gossip about
How she works with four men;
About how her hardwork is not in her cabin
But in her boss’ bedroom.
You’d cringe your nose if you knew
She could puff out perfect rings of smoke,
And while your son reeked of tobacco,
You called it occasional stress.
You’ll ask her if she’ll still work after marriage
Expecting a negative
While you won’t ask the same
To the man she weds.
You see, she could be all of these
But you like to give her labels;
You like to massage the scalps of young girls
With a list of do’s and don’ts,
Painting an image of the perfect girl
On the canvases of their body,
That warms your spineless ego,
From corsets and,
Veils hiding her opinions,
Voices hushing her thoughts,
To taunts restricting her strength,
And ideologies magnifying her oppression.
But you see, she’s perfect
In ways as unique as her fingerprint.
And while you preach your myth,
She chastises her perfection
With her soul
That is solely written