Chadar

It’s 42 Degrees.
In between the hustle and bustle of Gardezi Bazaar,
Beggars line up at the kerb of each street.
Upper-class auratein walk with conceit,
draped in their fancy chadars,
clacking their heels.
Mard blast angraazi music,
car windows down, steering wheels.
fantasising about 90’s Bollywood feels:
When the wind snatches away
chadars from our heads,
floating in the air,
landing on their cream coloured beds.

It’s 43 degrees.
I loosen my chadar to let in some breeze,
I quench my thirst with Limka –
cold water mixed with lemon squeeze,
four eyes fixate on my pink coloured kameez,
Teasing me in angraazi,
Babe call me maybe?
Tumhe dekh kay kuch kuch hota hai.
number tou bata dou kia hai,
I cling tightly onto my chadar’s crease.
As I run to the other street,
their eyes continue to follow my feet,
I am left at God’s mercy.

La illaha illala.

Maulana sahib’s words ring in my ears,
women are pearls hidden in shells,
women are a magic spell
a fitna for men.
women shall dwell most in hell.

It’s 44 degrees.
I abandon my chadar on the concrete,
My flight response kicks into my heels,
leaving me at the bus stop street.
An adrenaline of anxiety pumping through my body,
I reach home half dead and half alive.
Dadi yells angrily from inside,
You’ve brought forth our demise!

Where have you left your Chadar?