Praise to the Malayali woman
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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