the epitome of all that is good in your homeland Kerala,
dressing prim and proper.
You wear only gold, which the elders approve
and cook and clean like a "good" wife.
You smile eternally, never out,
you're every Malayali mother-in-law's dream come true.
You never shout or scream or embarrass
and cover your ears when I mention 'sex' or 'taboo.'
You frown on my unorthodoxness
and my I-don't-care-if-I-fit-in attitude.
You're the flawless, God-fearing, splendid woman that some of us can never aspire to be.
Yet I hear you fiercely discuss on the train
with our carbon copy friends
(in the ladies compartment of course, when men are not around)
whether Gigi/Beena/Shymol? some other God-forsaken woman
could quite possibly be able to flaunt
her stomach revealed, in a sari
while still staring at my non-conformity.
(This poem was the result of an actual conversation overheard on a train, between some white collar women. The conversation disgusted me and made me think about what Keralites really are.
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