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.

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