By: Ammara Shah
I don’t want to tell my daughter
The tales of my decline and fall
The tales of my compromises
And fake smiles
I want to show her the bruises
The wounds, the blood, the scratches
I had through those terrible fights
Against patriarchy, misogyny, sham honour,
uncalled-for modesty, idiotic traditionalism and social injustice
I don’t want to tell my daughter
The tales of mourning-driven wakeful nights
Tears geared by and on misfortune,
Reminiscing Tennyson’s “idle tears”
I want to tell my daughter
Tales of the nights
In whose loneliness I weaved dreams,
With eyes, far away
From tranquil slumber.
And of the agony of realising those dreams:
Dragging myself on thorn-strewn path,
Gleaning bruises instead of roses,
Awaiting blissful dawn.
The dawn in whose wistful longing
Light started to rake in my petrified eyes
The dawn whose wistful advent
Will pour upon her a life
Away from shadow of
Patriarchy, misogyny, sham honour, uncalled-for modesty, idiotic traditionalism, social injustice
And mullah’s self crafted bracketing sin