By Yeshaswini Srihari
While I was a child
My mother whispered the story of nine yards
And the women over which it is draped,
Singing powerful words to me as I fell asleep
The story of a country, and its daughters,
And their struggle to thrive.
My mother is a warrior,
She is a land where beauty is bold,
Her rivers speak loud,
Her mountains rise, covered in snow,
She bears deserts and plains,
Where verses of her victory grow,
And her valleys carry the echoes,
Of her fight for freedom, of her war cries.
My Mother is the very essence of life.
She has fought for her own dignity.
It is so easy for us to acknowledge her beauty,
And so easy for us to ignore her pain.
How convenient to think,
She would never face injustice again.
She has been singing for her daughters in vain
Leaving her, leaving me, with a struggle in silence.
This saree which is draped over our bodies,
It is scarlet red, a tradition, a sacrifice.
It is a reminder of the blood we will bleed,
While our mountains are abused,
While our flowers are plucked,
Our every inch exploited,
While our plains are left to become barren land,
And nothing grasps our outstretched hand,
Not even the echo of our cry for help.
The borders of this saree were invaded,
Just like those of my mother were.
These foreign objects of colonisation,
Conquer our skin and invade our bones,
Stripping us of our precious stones,
Like in the story of Queens and their thrones,
Mouths sewn shut with gold thread,
You hear our silver anklets instead,
Along with the jhumkas which rattle on our ears
But can you hear our hearts beat?
Can you feel our fear?
This daughter of India fights,
With an attempt to find her voice.
The nine yards of this saree,
Are embroidered with our truth.
It is draped across our mountains,
Pleated along our plains and pinned to our borders,
And our pallu flows like the words from my mouth,
And the ink from my pen,
These daughters of India will not be hurt again,
For mother has taught us too well.
This is the kind of poetry which cuts your tongue.
These verses come from women so strong,
It was nothing but a mistake to do them wrong.
We are fighting for our pride, considered a sin
By using our voices from within.
These daughters of India fight to prove,
That we are not property to be owned,
That we are not filed cases or doubted complaints,
But women who practice humanity with no restraint,
We are women with an abundance of love,
Just like my Mother.
This story of mother and daughter,
Is one of overwhelming strength.
These bruises upon this tainted brown skin,
Speak volumes of the history of my kin.
India is mother to daughters who are yet to heal.
Draped in nine yards, kajal sharp, hair braided tight
These verses we will religiously recite,
I will immortalise our efforts in poetry,
Until India and her daughters are free.
I will immortalise my efforts in poetry,
Until I am free.