I’m a good girl
of good character-
tall, feminine, pretty,
in my parents’ opinion.
I’m one of those
who does the morning prayers
before anyone wakes up,
makes sure the maids don’t steal cream,
checks the doors and windows
while everyone else
sleeps and snores.
Convent schools, long skirts,
ponies with ribbons, and
clean tiffins back home.
Clean skin, a soft voice, gawsy,
no boys or bruises,
inside or outside.
Cosset, but with a good character.
Colleges without hostels,
sleepovers or once-in-a-lifetime trips.
Online jobs and
far, far away from ambitions.
Once a disco night,
because Ariya was too drunk
to come back alone.
Been a yard away from alcohol,
and a mile away from weed.
Growing into a woman
soon to be married.
If I had a reason to be rejected,
I would be worried,
but I’m telling you-
I have always been a woman
with good character.
Mom and dad take pride
in my clean soul:
asphyxiated life
and smothered dreams.
Sohail is a doctor,
lives in Delhi,
lives with his parents.
He likes me but
little busy to love me;
too free to love others.
Our marriage was of
a good character:
we slept in different beds.
Mom tells me to
wear bras that lift my breasts
and shifts his mind.
She tells me to use
more of red for the lips,
and black for my beneaths.
“They call out on men.”
I do things like I’m told.
I’ve told you, I’m a good girl
with a good character.
I missed out on a few things though,
I’ve never excelled
at asking questions.
I never asked what should be done,
when he spits on me,
when he calls me
unattractive flesh,
an unambitious woman.
You didn’t tell me what I should’ve done,
when he makes babies with
other women,
kicks me on my genitals,
and out of his house.
He calls me gawaar
for not touching the bars,
a bore for staying quiet,
dumb for staying away
from his male friends.
He stays away in the nights,
farther away when he’s home.
He looks at me like
mom looked at the girls
who lived on their own terms.
He looks at me like
we look at spiders.
There’s no love, no hate too,
just disgust.
All the things he shames me for,
are the ones I was taught
to be respected for.
Why didn’t you tell me
to not let anyone hurt my pride
when you were confiscating
my phones?
To not let anyone scar my soul
when you caught me admiring
the cute boy next door?
To not bow down as life mangled me,
when you opened the last plait of my skirt?
Maa,
Why didn’t you teach me
to be a brave girl
with a strong character?