I am Sita.
Why do you ask?
Is it because
of my silence
or my rebellion?
Which offends you?
Which takes
your breath away?
Which makes you
want to brush me away
or take me for granted?
Tell me, why
do you think that I
would wait within boundaries
you draw for me?
Why would I not flirt
with strangely garbed men
who come knocking at my door?
If they spout ten heads,
would I scream in a fit of rage,
or cower submissively,
and let myself be taken away?
I am Sita.
Why do you care?
Is it because
of my seeming conformity,
my life within a life?
Which soothes you?
Which makes you feel
I am like any person
you would encounter
on the road?
Answer me, why
must I not go where
I please, dream of
love-making in forests
while monkeys and trees watch
in voyeuristic nonchalance?
You would protect me,
you say, you with more
than just Bala, you
who have experienced Atibala,
you would hold me dear,
fight wars for me.
You would abandon me,
just when I allow myself
to be tamed: a Queen,
by any standard?
Let me not lie to you then,
I am she,
and yet, I am not.
I am Sita.
**
reworked from here:
http://head-start.blogspot.com/2011/02/myth.html
