Dowry- a poem

On a fine Sunday afternoon, I still wish

to get on a red saree and affix a
red bindi in the center of my forehead
which will be followed by the
khan
khan
khan
of the red bangles locking my wrists
as if they'd been anxious to
make love in betwixt themselves.

Among all the matrimonial rituals,
our ritualism society has tooled,
wearing red at weddings has
been my favorite.
A bride in red seems an
omnipotent deity, the entire community is summoned to worship to,
and the groom is the most fortunate soul,
whom the universe discerns to paint
her maang in red. 

But that Sunday revealed some
nondescript actuality to me.
Like marriages are more a unilateral covenant
and seldom a well-proportioned consent.
Like tying knots tightens the liabilities of brides' alone.
Like with painting her maang, he owns the unwritten patent right over her smallest organs to biggest dreams.
Like for them, the deity in the red saree is never really a deity, she's simply a puppet
they get free of cost,
although with a cluster of offers.
Like this partial process is the only reason
why "beti hui hai" is still a dreary news.

That day, when Baba was signing
the cheque for them,
I decided to visit God's canton
for I had had to elucidate my exact
values from Him.
The red blood around the mandap painted the last pages of my story in red as its epilogue.

I still love red for I arrive
at every wedding to put on the bride's
red saree and affix her red bindi in the center of my forehead which is followed by the
cham
cham
cham
of the red anklets that my mother gifted me
for my bidaai.