The White Box

The White Box

I woke up – not to the song of Cuckoo on the Gulmohar tree –

But to the thunderous, egoistic voice of soon to be the Man of the family.

(Too early to scream? It was a dinner table’s procession every evening.)

The voice hit again; I flinched;

(This man makes life a hell’s thing!)

Ran downstairs – my feet are trained – no noise ought to be made!

The flowers didn’t only wilt today – is a memory of every day –

Stood still – head weighed down, tears making their way;

(She makes efforts to earn – buys books and fun.)

And the voice stood tall – biased heart and narrow thoughts.

(He roams the streets – bothered by any work? None!)

Authority screams in every word –

(Does he own us?)

Weren’t you told to not hold

A phone before you get married and sensible enough?

Which lover of yours tempted you to go

Against the family’s rule and doom the status?

(Boy! You are younger than her;

To respect, you never learned.)

(Let her speak! Let her speak!)

I want to scream; my voice sealed within.

(Come on speak! Tell them why you bought it!)

She didn’t speak. She didn’t speak.

By heart, she knew – An argument

Could burn down, the freedom to earn,

Find friends in words, and dreams of the rising sun.

The white box of wonders – which holds a world within –

Now lies only

With soon to be the Man of the family.

(My sister, the eldest, lost her opportunities.)

Five years since the morning of chaos –

Today I draft this on a white box I own;

(So hard to bring a change in their thoughts!)

This home finally validates equal rights.

Ananya Singh

Ananya is a high school student from a small village in Uttar Pradesh, India.

She has been writing since the age of 11 but it was only this year (16) that the internet exposed her to the disastrous problems around the world.

Since then she has been writing about women and the world and youth.

Instagram poetry page: unfiltered_coven.

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