a woman needs a place to sit
Wake up before the family, before
the sun.
Hot chapattis for the children’s lunch —
tucked in a tiffin beside a generous ladle
of bhaaji, spiced greens and lentils,
a lunch that will go unappreciated,
mocked, if not
untouched.
Hot sweet strong tea
for the cool husband.
Steaming plate of pohe.
Wake the children,
soothe and scold and
shepherd them into the shower.
A glass of Bournvita stirred into milk —
for strong bones, you know?
Rush them to the school bus,
or later, having learned to drive
(because a woman must
also be independent),
drive them to school.
Back home, a plate
of leftover, reheated pohe;
still good (I always thought),
but nothing like when
just off the kadhai, steaming.
Scrub and sweep and dust and tidy,
or later, instruct the house help.
“Only a woman can turn a house
into a home,”
they say,
and nobody stopped these them to ask,
why?
Then lunch
for the big man —
multi-tiered steel dabba
housing a freshly-prepared
feast.
“Can you
[do something]?”
asks the child, or
the husband.
“But I just sat down,”
says my mother. I
rolled my eyes then, but I
understand now:
a woman needs a place
to sit; a space
to think.
