Illness to be pushed in a cage.
Your songs will be beaten into submission
Saying singing is a sinful disgrace.
Your dreams will be kept for display as
Ceramic cups to serve tea to guests.
Aspirations will be caged in a Saree,
In the name of a makeover.
They'll come at you one by one,
They'll be invited in fact to rate your gait.
And your body will be judged to be
Traded like a slave.
The forehead will be used as an
Estate to flaunt ownership in Red.
You'll be awarded a uniform that's
Widely recognised as a gown, to
Condemn you to a kitchen.
Cutting vegetables, preparing rotis.
Only after the third whistle of the cooker,
Your presence will be felt.
The caged bird in our country,
Can't even sing you see, she can just cook.
You either die as a Sanskari wife or
Live long enough to be aborted in the womb.
Between the two, if you dare to grow
Wings, you'll be deemed as a curse.
And If you're 'manly' enough to fly,
It can get worse.