THE WOMAN, ON FRIDAY EVENING
The woman I saw Friday evening,
Carrying a basket on her head
Each tired step grew slow and sluggish
A day had once more passed
With last night’s dream of a meal, just bread
And the children waiting, with the similar crime
Of dreaming the relish,
With thirsty throats and the hunger grossed.
It was quarter to seven
The sun was red, just sinking down.
More red were her hands
The face I saw, even more
And eyes too with a better score,
I dared not see them again.
The truth, the myth and the secrets of the town,
Altogether, in the eyes those, stand.
She was redder than liberty herself,
Just, in the moral strokes of the world,
To keep and bind her in a chain!
Yes! they dared me with cruel gestures,
“The human significance is very inhuman
You live with them or you be dead
And to do all the same, be a new man.
An ageless truth like the sun, the river and the cascade.”
The eyes then turned, after all was made
And I saw the woman, well, that Friday evening
Carrying a basket over her head.
Atul Singh is a final year student of BA English (Hons) at Banaras Hindu University. Contact: firstname.lastname@example.org