Dedicated to: evans_13 , kitkat_se_kittu, and Mochichimmy681
"I was born a girl,
declared delicate and frail.
And yet, ironically,
the household runs on my strength.
The four walls of the house,
supposedly a haven, a fortress of love,
where warmth and care were never sparse.
Memories both good and bad,
cherished and dreaded flood my mind,
as the sanctity of vermillion, dawns upon me.
There were so many moments when
The only word I associated with home was asphyxiated,
and yet today at this threshold that I stand,
home and its nuances start making sense.
Protection or encouragement,
support or love abundant,
it was only at home that unconditional love was all I got.
The subtle shrill music of the pressure cooker in the kitchen,
and the quarrels that were a part of watching television each day.
The fights and arguments,
The mean words that did little to express my pain, masking my love,
sharp and cruel, threaten to deafen me.
Perhaps this was the journey that brought me here,
From one home to another, taking away love,
regretting the unexpressed remorse,
the hugs that were left all in my mind.
Those unuttered apologies that died down in my throat,
and the four walls that loved me the most, my home.
I hold in my tears while I can, a woman grown,
on her journey to discover love and a family of her own.
The happy faces I grew up around wish me well,
as the nuptials progress, binding me to another.
Being away is going to be hard, I realise,
but then, can any other place that I live in equal
the warmth that home boasts of?
Will being home here be the same as being there?
Alas, I shall never know till I step away,
discovering the unknown,
seeking light in a dark tunnel leading
YOU ARE READING
Mrinalini♦
General FictionThe households in India have been run by women primarily, following the centuries old tradition. From taking care of the child's breakfast to ensuring that the mother in-law's morning cup of tea is served on time, it is always the woman of the house...
