by Anu Kumar
My daughter speaks to me of Emma Watson,
And her speech at the UN
I read that somewhere in Gujarat
unmarried women have been barred from using cell phones.
In time, brutal rigidities become plain comedy.
She likes Lucy who steps easily
from wardrobe to the land of Narnia
Somewhere in the inside pages, I read of a man,
a routine harasser of women,
a routine evader of punishment.
Not for long, never for long.
My daughter knows of the Famous Five,
George and Timmy, and her cousins
In a village in Haryana, women became victims
While agitators roared outside Delhi
A city itself besieged in many ways.
Things never last, especially when you feel
That the centre cannot hold.
She tells me of Anna who goes in search of her sister
Elsa, lost in a frozen land, ice in her heart.
And for my part, the other common stories of women
Being lured by terrorists in a desert that’s still rich in oil.
If somewhere the women fight back,
will my hopes be Disney tales too?
My daughter will tell me of Malala,
And I can scarcely bring myself to talk of Soni Sori
She’ll tell me that America could have its first woman president soon
I could think of complexities, the nitty gritty of it all and stop.
Of course, there’s every chance, a total possibility.
For it’s her today, and it’ll be all her tomorrow.
My today, I know, will soon, be past.
Things get built, brick by brick,
an inch creeping first up to a foot.
One president at a time.
Always one, and soon, one too many.
