By Sristi Pramanik
On a typical spring morn,
during my dilly-dally
in the apartment lawn,
the sight of her habitual hurry
broke into my reverie.
A lunch-bag of jute
swinging in one hand,
the other holding the front-pleat
of her saree - a drape so neat,
but a color not bright nor bland.
Her complexion was tanned
contrasted with hair jet-black,
but bearing grand lustre
in a bun slicked to the back,
secured by a garland
of fragrant Jasmine,
with it's end bouncing in sync
with her bangles' rhythmic clink.
Her face wore
emotions many,
and a brief glance
sparked my curiosity's chance
to question them
without answers any.
An idleness of defeat -
did she depart from a fight
last night with her husband
about their poverty-ridden plight?
Or is she unmarried,
victim of an earful
this morning from her parents
growing old and woeful,
asking her to find a groom,
for how long can she support
this impoverished room?
A wave of anxiety-
is she worried about her child
passing today's test,
or hailing from a school
not nearly among the best,
or whether she'll succeed
in breaking the pattern of her creed
and getting her children educated?
Is she worried
about paying the rent
that has doubled in 2 months
of her being a tenant;
the landlord's tyranny
perhaps leaves no money
to merely survive
on her salary's remnant.
A calming smile
of momentary happiness -
Did she remember
something of glee
from her recent past,
or did she reminisce
how she used to be
as a kid with dreams so vast?
Did she cook a meal
that was a family-favourite,
earning appreciation across the table?
Or did one of her wounds
finally heal
and become a forgotten fable?
The only thing that I knew for sure
was that she was the maid of C-204,
in at 7 am, prim and proper,
strutting with the pride
of being both a cook and a mopper.
Her pride was valid-
she was the best at her job,
and households couldn't run
without the turn of the doorknob
at her timely arrival.
Though my questions
as a mystery remain,
regardless of the answers
she doesn't ever refrain,
from walking into a work
that's looked down upon,
but never forgetting to adorn
her hair with a garland of Jasmine,
for the beauty of those flowers
lies in her tireless soul
that toils for hours and hours.