The Bindi over the broad shiny forehead fiercely removed with the depositing vermilion on the dry floor, the red banarasi saree turned white within few seconds and the dictionary of sasural portrayed her from suhagan to abhagan.
At the tender age of 16 her Almighty made her savitri, and the sola somvaars from last ten years impuissant to mould her Parvati.
The gloom in the day light of May can’t match blackness of her hair, The redness of her washed maang can’t complete the blush of her cheek.
The brahmin chanted the ritual of submergence, the stinky rose over the body of corpse enshroud.
Screaming inside the middle night of the earth’s day light, the fire was set to eat her life, since the birth or as a clump of cell they measured her breathe equated with the length of moustache. The pellucid black hair viciously barbered, the squeezed hopes where on the way of funeral pyre.
Never allowed to read vedas or shastras her heartbeat Snatched with her colours and Belas.
Her skin shouted, at least the downtrodden were white and work, we the high erupt our life with father and end it with husbands.
The redness of sindoor equated to the redness of her flesh, the sketched glory of her life burned forever in her parmeshwar’s pyre.
~ Anchal