The delicate shapely feet in pale coffee cream hues

Adorned with traditional mehendi in brilliant shades of red

Carried the dainty body like a feather in the wind

As they ran pitter patter towards the door.

Anklets tinkling, bangles singing their own separate songs in unison,

Chains dancing wildly against her young, yet, full chest.

Her newly acquired pallu slipped out of place

Only to be dragged up hastily as the shapely form lithely covered ground to the balcony.

How many moons had she giggled with her childhood chums

In anticipation of this special day when she met the man of her dreams.

How many times had she sat on the hard floor of the arena

When the star-studded screen made its monthly appearance in her village.

She had watched many a romance unfold through partially covered eyes

Imagining herself in place of the svelte or buxom heroines in the throes of conjugal bliss.

Mistress of the mansion, queen of his dreams,

She had already lived a life where she and her handsome man lived as equals.

Stealthily she peeped over the thin railings of the balcony

To feast her eyes on her life partner to heart’s content.

At the chaukhat of her childhood mansion stood the baraat awaiting its welcome

Of rose petals and aromatic ithar that were flung ceremoniously at the groom and his kinsmen.

As the garland of notes went around the eager neck of the groom,

Ganga backed away in shock and then dismay.

All her childhood dreams of bliss and aspirations of equality melting away

Into one swift nothingness as the groom sat, weighing down the animal, as old as her father.

Ganga stopped for a minute and thought of her mother and sisters before her

Who sat like dolls and slaves next to their older masters who ruled them.

She pulled off the pallu that restrained her movement

And ran towards the chaukhat, bare head held high.

She would be mistress of a mansion and a queen of her man’s dreams

She would sit by his side as an equal and a life partner

Not at the feet of a withering old man wielding a whip.

With the pen firmly in her hands, dreams intact, hopes and head held high,

Ganga would live as a mistress and a queen, of her own life and dreams.