She was a mother;
fondling her newly born
her body all torn
but her arms, warm with love
She was a wife;
eyes of love for her husband
her life mingled with his
for him, a pillar of strength
She was a daughter;
running around in her home
the apple of her father’s eyes
the cherry of her mother’s soul
She was a warrior;
her hands bleeding over stones
as she threw them at enemies
for her country, no lesser than a Kunwar
Oppressed she was
disregarded by her own
they made marriage her sole purpose
they made service her only hope
Her eyes held the same emptiness
as her name tag in the family tree
her hands held the same scratches
as the utensils she rubbed clean
Love was what she offered
injustice was what they returned
the very homeland that she revered
was the one that betrayed her
Her whole sweat and tears
she offered to her in laws
but with blinds of prejudice, the words:
“our buhari is only a procrastinator”
She had many different forms
sometimes a wife, sometimes a mom
and as Durga; divine were these forms
but as a Nepali; why were they not?
and as Durga; divine were these forms
but as a Nepali; why were they not?
Selfishly, everyone took, but
selflessly, she gave her own
“a disgrace”: she was called in the womb
but the truth remains, she’s a gemstone
Everyone saw only her forms
either a child or maybe a mom
but the true her was within
and she was so much more
She was a sea of love
an ocean of sacrifice,
a mountain of strength
she was a woman,
She was an ancestor
but more than anything else, she was “Her”
She is a separate individual
who deserves her own world
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