From cradle to a home we built with care,
Me and my husband, our lovely pair.
Brick by brick, we built the walls,
Those that stand mighty and all.
Sometimes I dream of climbing them,
But fear engulfs me of a deadly mayhem.
I try every day, at times too hard,
I serve, I slave, yet end up scarred.
Baba said I was born a warrior,
Rising beyond shame and barriers.
The war of birth I bravely won,
In marriage I fail, courage, I have none.
Don’t be mistaken, I’m smart,
Housewife I am, but with a passion for art.
In a small basement where the stairs lead,
Hidden away from the rest, my art breeds.
Yes, I do paint, I paint quite well,
In my stories, women freely dwell.
They read, they dance, and come alive,
They have what I can’t aspire to strive.
A door of opportunities awaits me,
My 30-year-old self wants to break free.
No temptation I must carry, no dreams,
No whining on beatings, no screams.
In his shrine I abode, oh dear,
I reside for love, not fear.
Most days is harmony, some is noise.
Gentle I stay, for provocation destroys.
From cradle to a home I built with love,
With my younger self, hand in glove.
Brick by brick, I erected the walls,
Of a house, that was not mine at all.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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