I was born as a lady, never an infant.
Never a kid, or never a child.
I was born as a woman.
A small girl I was once—
Did not enjoy wearing pretty dresses, doing my hair,
Because I wanted to fly, jump, and climb mango trees,
But pretty dresses were shackles to my freedom.
A freedom that I desired, but never concurred.
A teenager I was once—
The lonely afternoons smelled like tetul-makhni and mustard oil.
Then one day, sharee wore me for the first time,
Because I felt that sharee was lovelier than I ever was.
On one scary night, relentless crimson hue coloured my bed,
And I trembled, as it trembled inside my belly.
Carrying the pain since, never complaining.
Because it was all natural, it was all the destiny of a lady.
A lady I was once—
From smelling like Dolonchapa,
My fragrance turned into five spices.
The georgette ornaa of mine, once coloured up the sky,
Turned to a cotton one, tied to my wrist—
Removing the sweat of mine and my child’s.
Then one day, I hold the hands of death,
As I hold and smile, I think about all the good times.
But all those times vapour in my mind,
As I remember,
Remember those countless days and nights.
The countless times, I was touched,
Touched without consent,
Touched without decency,
Touched without respect.
Yet, kept on smiling,
Because that’s what I lady must do,
To safe her dignity, and the dignity of some men.
So I sigh, as I die,
It’s a bliss to be a woman,
And the curse remains hidden.
