A poem by Nandini Sen Mehra
Who made dinner while Rumi whirled,
who mopped the floors while Rabindranath sat in quiet contemplation,
and did he lift his legs off the ground obligingly, for a faceless hand,
who fed and bathed the children,
brushed down their hair,
mended a torn sleeve,
while the great men of learning
peered deeply into the unknown,
clutching at threads,
weaving tales that other men would read,
and women,
women- to imagine a history of the world
retold from her eyes,
a stone, that would, if it could,
be flint to kindle a fire,
Medusa, the witches of Salem,
Soorpanaka, Sita,
the sati-ed brides offered up,
as little more than the timber they sat on,
the women traded as spoils of war
seeded, as fertile soil,
or those, left behind,
a wailing baby at her breast,
and three more to feed,
what of them,
of us.
So we too,
bow to the Devis of stone in our temples,
while we slave, in smoky kitchens,
our soot-stained lives wiped clean,
before a meal is served on gleaming plates,
for the men, who eat first,
and don’t know when the women will eat,
or if they will.
And we will kneel, won’t we, to Mary,
and lower our heads in reverence to Khadija, to Aisha,
sing paeans to Lakshmi, Saraswati, Durga,
asking, seeking,
blessings, blessings,
while Hera, Artemis, Athena,
put their legs up on a table and pity our contentment,
to be,
as small in our voices,
our bodies, our thoughts,
as allowed,
and offer up our sacred wombs,
to men,
who will decide their fate on our behalf,
while we busy ourselves with more pressing things,
such as dinner.
Nandini Sen Mehra is an Australia-based poet and writer with an abiding curiosity about the human condition, the natural world, and the underlying interconnectedness of all things. Her debut book of poetry, Whorls Within, explores her journey into matters of the heart, mind and spirit. It is available at Amazon. She can be followed at Instagram. (www.nandinisenmehra.com)
