(I've finally written a poem after a long time. It is inspired by this:
'This man died alone in an old age home. What he left behind brought tears to everyone's eyes' http://www.speakingtree.in/blog/this-86yearold-man-died-alone-in-an-old-age-home-what-he-left-behind-brought-tears-to-everyones-eyes )
At least he had an old age home, in bestest cult no tears are shed for Vrindavan Widows
At least he had an old age home where he could write of his loneliness - the loneliness of those who are no longer of use, Vrindavan Widows of bestest cult don't have the privilege of writing their heart rending poems, telling of their plight -
Most of them are illiterate anyway, their redundancy began when they were born, born the accursed gender, a female child, in the bestest cult -
Most of them will be ignored anyway, their redundancy makes the stories of their plight irrelevant, in the bestest cult -
At least he had an old age home where he was placed, perhaps by a family too busy to take care, perhaps too uncaring to take care, perhaps he went there himself seeking the care his increasing infirmity needed, Vrindavan Widows are thrown out on the streets by the "sacred families" of bestest cult, thrown out because they bring bad luck, their very shadow, evil, because of the evil of losing their husbands, to death.
If stay she must, in the "sacred family" where she had given birth to the much longed for, the most prized for, the most prayed for, sons, she must live like a shadow in the dark corners of her home, no longer her home, which, when a new bride, a new mother, with loving care, a tender hand, she had tended, fed, decorated, kept spic and span.
But now, a widow, like an empty shadow she must exist. A shaven head, a plain white sari, bare hands, bare ears, a bare neck - these would be her adornments from henceforth, for the rest of her life. No outward signs of being, of feeling, of thinking, of life, must she show. For her, from henceforth, her plate would be sparse, devoid of flavour. For her, from henceforth, her face would be blank, devoid of laughter. Like an empty shadow - alive, but dead - she must exist in the dark corners of her existence, in the home that once was her home, if stay she must.
But when a burden she becomes, an extra mouth to feed, a superfluous relic of a forgotten past, cantankerous and needy, needy of the same tender love, the same tender care, she once freely gave, then go she must. If reluctant she is, if resist she does, out she will be thrown, bundled, shoved into a train, to Vrindavan. A Vrindavan Widow she will be from henceforth, miles away from a home that once was her home, for the rest of her life. The dusty streets of Vrindavan would be her new home, for the rest of her life.
At least he had an old age home where his basic needs were cared for, Vrindavan Widows eke out a living begging on the streets of the land of the bestest cult
At least he had an old age home where he lived his full life in relative dignity, in bestest cult, young Vrindavan Widows are no longer burnt alive as Sati on their dead husband's pyre, but are debased, prostituted, supplied to any customer who will use and pay for their keep by the very ashrams they seek shelter in
At least he had an old age home with hygienic facilities, medicines for his ailing old body, Vrindavan Widows must live in grime and dirt, victims of sexually transmitted diseases, TB, dysentery
At least he had an old age home where his infirmities were assisted, a warm bed with a mattress, clean bed sheets and a blanket, Vrindavan Widows, worn out and feeble, must fend for themselves - bathe, cook and feed themselves, no helping hands to help climb up steep rickety steps to grimy hovels where the hard floor is their resting place - no hot water baths, no warm blankets, not even a bed to stave off the winter chill creeping through their wrinkled skin, wasted limbs, deep into their brittle bones
At least he had an old age home with running water, toilets and sewage system, Vrindavan Widows must live squalid lives at the end of their lives in the land of the bestest cult
At least he had an old age home where family visited him sometimes, Vrindavan Widows live and die, hidden away, forgotten, shunned by their families, ignored by a society that prides itself as the bestest cult
