Indian Household And Depression

Indian parents will tell you that they have constructed a building for you.

A big house with your single big room, with a beautiful corner

So, you can crouch and cry.

Indian parents cannot see you hungry for attention,

Will never pick up from the signs that you keep scattering around,

Signs of your defunct mental state.

But they can see that you are of the marriageable age now.

In the big house they will feed you,

Until your skin gives up expanding,

They will make your body a reservoir for fat,

So that you’re full when you are on your way to depression.

In the big house, I don’t mean to disregard it,

They painstakingly built for,

They will not talk with you about

What’s going on within that universe

Inside your little head.

Instead, they will barge into your big room,

In the big house, having a beautiful corner,

And ask you to stop writing poetry,

Because your ex-neighbor’s younger daughter’s

Eldest sister in law, cracked an important exam

And she is now appointed as an officer.

They will remind you,

Expression of feelings is for the weak,

Because people in their families,

Maintained an attitude of the grave.

They will proudly announce,

We don’t put our teeth on display because we are happy.

They will fling your written expressions of pain,

In midair, or throw them in the dustbin,

Or worse, they’ll let the cattle feed on them.

They will remind you that nobody will marry you,

Because you are ugly and you don’t have a job.

And when you decide to walk out,

Of the big house.

Decide to live in a scanty place,

You plan to go and freelance,

And earn your daily packet of noodle,

Boil it to sizzle and eat it while watching your

Once in a while favorite movie,

Your elder sister will call you up

To remind you that you don’t deserve love.

Because you are ugly and you don’t earn enough.

You will never get respect like she gets,

You will never get the taste of how it feels

When you rule the world with your money and fair skin.

No one will care to pay attention to your existence

Because you are ugly and no one cares what’s inside.

And you, little ‘cultured’ woman,

Will not talk back to her.

Because in Indian household,

It is utter disrespect to speak at the face of an elder.

You can die with pain,

With disdain running in your veins,

But, talking about your disturbed mental health,

Oh no! Never think of propelling into that scene.

It’s a crime,

A heinous crime.

A crime with zero tolerance,

A crime that is unforgivable.

And in the household, it’s never noticed

Enough to be unforgettable.