“Ji” she says when you call her.
Not the American “Gee” of disbelief
Or expletive curtailed, but the respectful ‘Ji’
That is the suffix of her life.

Don’t mistake it for subservience
For she can catch you “Aade haath”
Twist you and your argument
Around her little finger
Her dupatta flying in the wind
And her perfect almond eyes
Outlined with eyeliner, lids perfectly shaded
With matching eye shadow
And a piercing look.

She can hold her cocktail glass, Just so
And her chopsticks
Or eat with a roti and never
Mess the palm of her hand
Which she can join in a Namaste
As easily as a handshake
And if the mood takes her
Raise it in a dainty ‘Adab’.

You can see her midriff
Tantalisingly displayed
Between her blouse and sari line
Or even more seductively hinted at, in the contours
Of her kameez as it flows down to a salwar
Churidar or seedha pajama.
Ankles encircled in silver
And feet that have learnt to kick
Up her heels as well as your misdemeanour.

She is as layered as the city
Has as many generations in her past
Her tears drip with its history
Her smiles pray for its future
And with her shy ‘Muskurahat’ 
She asks that you join her
Walk beside her, not ahead, nor behind.
And remember that she is
Your mother, your sister, your friend, your wife
If you can give her a moment
Can you give her your life?

Year: 
2016
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