You were a goddess once, placed on a pedestal, worshipped with flowers and incense, with fear and awe … with love and reverence. You were resplendent, and radiant as the sun. As a mother, you offered succour to your children, wiping their tears and healing their wounds. As an avenger, you rode a tiger, slaying monsters with your glittering sword, wearing the skulls of your enemies as a necklace around your proud neck, while the whole world cowered under your war-cry. As a lover, you razed the skies with the heat of your passion. And as the earth … you gave life.
Your pedestal’s gone now. They tore it down long ago – those same worshippers. Your children. And they locked you in a different kind of sanctum sanctorum – what they call a kitchen, where you were left to preside over spices and pickles and mete out justice to the bacteria on vegetables. Oh they left your arms intact – the first to wield a broom, the second to clutch a brush, the third to hold a spoon, the fourth to seize a mop. I see your arms working tirelessly, like clockwork, soaking up dirt, dust, sorrow, disease … anything that plagues your masters, until everything’s dry and clean and nice as sugar and spice. Until your own brow is soaked in gallons of sweat.
When you tried to escape from the kitchen-temple, they quietly locked you in yet another sanctum sanctorum – a larger place of confinement, the one they call society. And they laid little traps for you, like landmines. Landmines made of groping arms, and stiff male organs, and domestic violence and dowry demands, and many many others you could step on at any moment. They waited till you cried out and begged for mercy, for nothing pleases them more than to see your eyes soaked in tears.
Sometimes I catch a flash of that old fire in your eyes, but it dies down so quickly that I always dismiss it as an illusion, birthed by wishful thinking. I have no songs of praise for you, no words of consolation, no sighs of sympathy, but just a little piece of advice. Soak no more. I hope someday you will listen.
Post written for the Indiblogger-Surf Excel ‘Soak No More’ contest.
Fudge 