Lover

By Samiksha Deshpande

A crucial part of Life’s great plan,

Is the mammoth task of finding a man.

And while the job’s a nightmare so sore,

It cannot hurt to dream some more.

Will he be burly? Will he be kind?

Or will he be blessed with a beautiful mind?

Will he be brave, or vile as a knave?

Will he retire to an early grave?

Shall I be mistress to diamond and gold?

Or will I receive true love till we’re old?

Will he be handsome? My own sweet Adonis?

Or will his good heart come as Cupid’s own promise?

He must have some humour, for one thing I dread,

Is a man who won’t laugh, he’s as good as dead.

He ought to be friendly, but hark, not too much.

Not one of my mates must swoon at his touch.

He must be calm yet strong like the sea,

He surely must make a mean cup of tea.

Not too domestic, now that’s a bore.

For what fool gets thrilled at every dull chore?

Will the man that I love be one for sport?

Or will he be more of the bookish sort?

Will grooming him be a task of mine?

Or will he always be dressed to the nines?

He could be a sailor,

He could be a prince.

He could be a handsome traitor,

But lawyers make me wince.

He mustn’t be a mummy’s boy,

Yet, he must be his parents’ joy.

As a father, he should be most mild,

Yet, he mustn’t spoil the child.

He ought to find some time to pray,

Yet faith mustn’t carry him away.

For, despite God’s most wondrous plan,

My lover must be his own man.

He must be caring, yet stand his ground.

God knows my choices aren’t always sound.

He must show feeling, bare to the bone.

Even if he looked like a heartless stone.

I must feel safe when in his arms.

With him, I must feel no qualms.

And now, one question seems to burn,

What will I give my man in return?

There’s love for a start,

Till death do us part.

Moderately rich,

Yet I can cook, I can stitch.

I can write a fair verse,

I can fill a decent purse.

I’m kind, I work with honesty.

He won’t find someone like me.

What man is my destiny?

Are we really meant to be?

Is he written in the stars?

Or is the idea just a farce?

There’s just one way to know ahead,

It begins with getting off the bed.

The job is a nightmare so sore.

But it cannot hurt to dream some more.

By Samiksha Deshpande