The toerings, shining, sized like a rye,
She trudged with a weight,
To get to the haveli, when it was light.
Slim sillouette moved gracefully,
Her eyes looking up ruefully,
The evening sun gleed upon her dusky skin,
Tired rays piercing her like a pin.
Long, narrow fingers clutched the shawl,
Screening her features from stranger’s prowl,
Straight stick arms groped pots of water,
Colourful clays, the craft of a rustic potter.
Red bangles chimming on her arms,
As she hurried with sweat inside her palms,
Her sick husband on his rickety bed,
Would otherwise slap, if he was not fed.
The women behind cackled with laughter,
The sound of anklets following after.
Her hasty footsteps slowed its pace,
Head tilting towards the dessert space.
Her sharp ears caught the deep voice,
The young widow singing with poise,
Was it a cry of loss and pain,
A husky song letting vent without vain.
The song was ancient, as old as their race,
A tradition more perplexed than a maze.
They, women cannot sing,laugh or even pout,
When their sturdy husbands were about.
Yet when he departs to worlds apart ,
The women mourn, with songs to support.
She cries alone hiding from the rest,
But a tinge of freedom at her behest.
Now she must hurry before the sky turns black,
When the jackals comes out in a larger pack.
Her man at home, she cannot let him wait,
Inspite he in anger catches another bait,
Tomorrow, she will return to hear the widow’s song,
Because she too will sing, before long,
Sitting by the tree on lonely days,
Her freedom, a token of her mourning days.