By Harsimran Kaur

I, the woman, belong to this world

Where the patriarchal sacrum holds me tight;

Crushes me of my spirit and determination

I talk to myself,

If the woman I am made to be

Is actually the woman I am?

The heart and the mind are eclipsed

By the male panjandrum;

The scrutiny, the scourging and the scurrility

Time has come

I implore with a clarion call;

Subservience is no more my sheath

Connubial congestion is not my sheltering carapsse

Reproductive bliss is not an eternal entrapment

The creator created a man and a woman

To be an equal partner;

Not one to ride on carte blanche of insipid discretions

And the other to befall in drudgery

We have our parts to play. We do!

Why to then bring egomaniacal pursuits

To shelve the identity of a woman

As a pooh-pooh!

She is born rich, prosperity in her blood

Of sacrifice and unconditional love

So what if the fine lines turn into wrinkles,

The eyes fold in submission,

She is still the woman

Who wishes to be guarded by her free will!