Draped in a pink saree
with white polka dots,
she was sent far away
in a mahogany wooden palanquin
after rituals and vows
with an old man
sulking with diseases
who soon went away
farther than she had come,
and exactly where she would go
after living her last breaths.
But she was still young.
Tiny, with big wailful eyes,
draped up in innocence,
unaware of the social evils
or even of the trap she had fallen in.
And times unfortunate
had deprived her of her childhood,
her joys, her spirits, and left her with no good.
A shaved off head,
a pale face,
a zealless soul,
no more whining,
as if she had wailed enough,
and had no energy left,
not even to embrace grief.
Draped in a white saree,
with huge polkas of disapproval and pain on it,
she was slowly being dragged afar,
towards horrifying yellow flames,
stinking of three demises,
he, she, and humanity.
Bidisha Maharana
Third Year
B.A. (Hons.) History
Edited by Shalika Tripathi and Anshika Srivastava
Art curated by Khushi Kaul
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