SLAVE

HIRA BANSODE

Where the doors are decorated with mango leaves

Where the houses are ornamented with little flaming oil lamps

In that country a woman is still a slave.

Where Sita entered the fire to prove her fidelity

Where Ahilya was turned to stone because of Indra’s lust

Where Draupadi was fractured to serve five husbands

In that country a woman is still a slave.

Where a woman’s identity fades like nature’s blossoms

Where delicate jewels of emotion are trampled under a heel

Where the free birds of dreams are scorned

In that country a woman is still a slave.

Where the sky-flowers of desire must be left to float down the river

Where the threatening force of women’s mind must be buried in the earth

Where the silvery moonlight of happiness must be poured into a jar of darkness

In that country a woman is still a slave.

Where a woman in her youth is dried up by tradition

is confined all her life like a stunted tree

She remains in the shadow of someone else’s light

In that country a woman is still a slave.

In that country where women are still slaves

The conflagration starts in the hours made of flowers

The festival of lordship is celebrated with joy

but the stories of all that are recited with pain.

To be born a woman is unjust.

To be born a woman is unjust.