An Ode To Mom

By Ramyalakshmi K G

“White pinafore was my favourite one

Wore it for the school march-past

One fine day white dress became shun

When HER maroon label was cast !

Along came the cramps and mood swings

Deterred me from books and jogs

When I could pick up and patch things

SHE started writing monthly blogs !

I was told I should dress up in half-saries

To mark that I have entered womanhood

Shed my innocent smile, no more tooth fairies

Stop playing outside, even with my brotherhood

I could not talk to men, not even my dad

About HER or the white sanitary pad

But I was made to sit amidst a crowd, facing east

Just to announce I’m ready for marriage, feeding a feast

I was made to believe that HER stain was impure

But wow ! it was just deoxygenation

Temples and holy places didn’t have a cure

For this insanity of few religious notion

Three days of a month my dining was at a lone corner

Other days I had to sweep floors nook and corner

I shouldn’t touch anyone, or lie on a bed

Alas I was Midas! may turn everything red

Bear the pain, however bad it was

They said me, without knowing the cause

Because it’s a duty, and drug is a sin

Adhering to society, will make me win “

This was recited when I got my first period

By my Mom, with an unshook and steady voice

And she chose to put a firm period

To the passage of age-old fallacy and unvoice

Mom told me to call HER a period

And gifted me a frock to rejoice

White was my favourite colour

And so was the gift of her choice

Mom guessed my first day of menses

Just by the mood swings I would have

Assured me it was all well and normal

And this is how the body and mind cleanses

Mom told to me wear what I like

Not to drape any dress in despair

Be bold to play and ride a bike

Sarcastically! Like in ads of whisper

When I ran out of pads, I called Mom habitually

She said it was no shame to ask my dad

Mom told me I wouldn’t have any gathering ritually

Thinking of which now, makes me so glad

Impure is not the blood, but society’s thought

Entering a kitchen or temple is my own personal choice

Mom might have gone so far, surpassing a lot

She is still living with me, as my voice

By Ramyalakshmi K G