Ode to unmarried and unemployed girls | Swathy Janardhanan

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Balcony doors wide open,

she sat on her hostel bed,

for last God-knows-how-many-years.

Everyday,

she waited for the dusk.

As a murder of crows wing away-

and city lights glare with painted eyelids,

she unfurled cobwebs of her thoughts.

Indian girl,

twenty eight and unmarried.

Five feet two inch and dusky skin.

"Seeking alliances?"

"Hell no, not now."

She's unemployed and uninterested.

Nested in failures of government exams.

And in her Indian late twenties.

First born of a broken family.

She is community's question mark-

and family's trauma therapist.

Acha's migraine and amma's heartache.

Victim of forced family conversations.

"Girl, stop telling others you've PCOS."

"Pray or fast unto death for a job."

Endless heaves and tears.

You postmortem her flat chest-

and polka dots on her skin.

She's the worst picture in gossip columns-

of neighbourhood Seema aunties.

They blabber about her boyfriend.

The one with long unkempt hair.

"I'm telling you again Beena,

not a pure virgin this one."

Fallen from lines of a rustic verse,

She's child of a golden past.

Romantic and creative.

But now a poster child of relative's sympathy.

Still chasing her dreams?

Who will want to marry her?

"That long haired boy?"

"Poor thing, he seems doomed."

Jinxed with real troubles,

she plays with fire and ice.

Runs in her high heels-

and sways in short hair looks.

Opinionated but understanding.

Outgoing but pensive.

She has eyes that are talking.

You easily brand her as a feminist.

Looped in a swirl of multilingual songs-

and over thinking time and again,

Uncertainty is her new friend.

The rest've moved into Canadian winters.

Breathless out of unyielding exams,

she wished for an apple to fall on her head.

But her hometown has only coconuts,

or God forbid juicy jackfruits.

As strings of thoughts slithered in,

hissing like her fallen hair strands.

She was not a Sita nor a Draupadi,

But a total Durga in the making.

You can call her unemployed,

or an unashamed Indian girl.

But standing tall by the balcony rails,

she was unafraid and unique.