Poem: A tale from ‘man’s’ better half

A tale from ‘man’s’ better half

I walked in on one fine morn,

To a quiet café to gather my thoughts,

And there was a lady all forlorn,

Seated in a corner and alone,

I went there and sat beside her,

Offered her a coffee and a listening ear,

And a tissue to help her wipe her tears.

She seemed glad to have some company,

And looked straight into my eye,

And told me a story that made me cry.

‘It is very hard being a woman,

And harder still when you are also destitute,

I was brought up as an orphan,

And by my uncle was sold,

And forced to dance at a discotheque,

And each night appear as though I was quite in the mood,

Gyrate around a pole and satisfy male lust as though I was food .

I was loved,

But this was only with regards to my appearance,

My breasts, my face, my legs and hair.

About me as a person no one cared.

The looked at me as though I was play thing,

They were rude and nasty as though I was a lesser being,

And yet they said that the loved me dear.

This wasn’t what I was looking for,

I remember a long time ago when I was barely sixteen,

There was this boy and we were in love,

To him it was as though like me there were no other,

And he cared for me tenderly like a doting mother,

But we drifted apart and for long haven’t seen each other.

Fed up with life I ran away,

And was then spotted by an airlines company when I was on my way,

They said you are beautiful and we’d be honoured to have you,

Join our flights and be a hostess,

It’s a position of respect and honour,

And would well suit your calm demeanour.

I thought for once my life had changed,

But just when think so it remains the same,

Now here I am at this wonderful job,

Not much better than before I could add with a sob.

As a hostess at an aeroplane,

I apply so much make up that I look so very fair,

And when I look at a mirror I scarcely remember it’s me reflected there.

And the men, they are just the same as everywhere,

As I walk down the aisle they drop spoons to make me bend,

Stare at my arse and rate me out of ten.

Everyday I repeat please fasten your seatbelts,

Please turn off your phones,

And straighten you seats,

But these men so thick headed,

Whip out their phones,

Click photographs of me the moment I’m gone.

This is however not what makes me livid,

It is that they question my ‘Indian-ness’ that makes me sore,

Just because my eyes are slanted I’m called a cheap whore,

And these perverted men think these ideals make them Indian to the core.

This beauty is my curse,

And has brought me only suffering,

And however much you might want to escape,

This brings me my money,

My bread, butter and honey,

I have been condemned to this fate,

And I see no escape.

I know that you might try to understand,

And empathise,

But it is so hard to be a woman,

That I wonder if it’s worth it or should I end it all.’

Mukund Palat Rao (December 31, 2010)

(Note from the poet: The truth I feel cannot be sugar coated, and however much I might have not wanted to do this, the poem had to be written in a way which portrayed reality. )