Dolls

Under the purple haze 

of a briefly blooming 

Jacaranda tree, 

Before my famous feminist 

consciousness awoke in me 

and I started seeing everything 

from this perspective, 

we married off our dolls, 

staging the mandap 

with fires of marigold petals

and as our picture perfect Barbie 

lovingly named as Mrignayani,

in a lehanga made up of 

my mom’s saree fall, 

matching with a little bodice 

Fashioned out of a golden ribbon, 

tied the knot with a very 

desi Ken, named Siddharth, 

in patched up kurta dhoti 

Sewn lovingly by Amma on 

her Usha sewing machine 

and as the guests began 

to feast on bhelpuri 

faintly resembling the biryani, 

it was the halwa made in a 

toy wok, 

A mix of water and 

glucose biscuits

whose spoon fulls were

shyly offered by the 

blushing bride to the 

smug groom. 

And then, the moms began to sing 

the auspicious bidai geet

and cried copious tears 

as the bride sat in the 

groom’s car bidding farewell 

To one and all.