She is the
one, who plays so many roles,
Born as a
daughter, she turns and crawls;
Pain and
pathos, cling to her societal-gender,
As she
stands strong, yet so tender;
She grows to
walk in death’s dark veil,
Hard it is
for her, on life’s sea to sail;
She dreams
of the day she gets married,
To share
with her mate, all the pain she carried;
After
marriage she awaits a baby to be born,
Hell amidst
happiness she undergoes, in the pain she had borne;
In rearing
the child, she loses her-self,
Confining
her desires to her memory’s shelf;
Weaker she
gets, as the years go by,
She, ‘as
silenced’ now will forever lie.
A laborer, a
friend, a colleague, a sister and mother
Roles she
donned like there was no other.
Toiled so
hard, till she went to the ground,
Will always
live in many hearts, as a 'queen-crowned'.
Many 'women
to-be' die as fetuses,
Just because
the parents fear their taboos.
Yet a few
are born to create their spaces,
But, they
are made subject to all forms of injustices.
Jesus, we
know, died on the cross,
On whom the
suffering of all women did emboss;
The bruises,
the blood, the wounds and his words,
Could do
nothing, as he suffered under human swords;
Is this how
we for women, pave way?
How then can
the men say,
That we men are
the potters and women the clay,
While molding
their minds in man's own way.
Can we
really wish them a happy women’s’ day?
When all
forms of injustices, continue to stay.
-Vinod Shemron