I am the new age Indian woman
the daughter of a father who
calls me Angel
and the sister of my brothers
who think I am a fairy
who has descended from the heavens.
I have the wings
that could take me to the highest of the skies
beyond the clouds and beyond the stars
but the vultures hover above
their ravenous and watchful eyes focused on me
and their talons and beaks
in perpetual readiness to pounce on me.
I get diktats issued from time to time
from the guardians of the great Indian culture
from the moral police and the custodians of values,
that my skirts should touch my ankles
that my neckline should stay just around my larynx
and I can't shake a leg in the disco
nor can I say cheers in a pub.
But how can you stop the vultures
with a sight that pierces through
the layers of my prescribed opaque clothes
to see through and sense the fig leaf underneath
and always ready to plunge and peck at
the offensive and evil protrusions on me
that entice them to no end
and that fans the lecherous fire in them?
I may hide my body in an iron armour
and even may go for a mastectomy
but the vultures will still hover over me
for vultures will always be vultures
even though they may have their own
daughters sisters and mothers.
And again I must continue to remind myself
I am a woman and
it's all my fault.