Stepped in a box,
Looked giant, I was small.
I sat playfully,
Mother smiled, father jovial.
All I did was play with toys,
Sometimes fall asleep with my car held close.
Trouble in the paradise,
When I turned four.
When father found I possessed more cars than the dolls.
Mother worried, bought me some new frocks.
With striped socks, I matched them to my shorts.
Soothing father, mother declared, it’s just a phase.
The phase became a period.
A chapter, now a hard bound book.
The giant box still present,
Sat in, but my ass won’t fit.
Mother and father don’t want me to play with cars,
Instead marry a guy who drives a lavish car.
Mom says no more frocks,
And a big cross on shorts.
No crop tops, they expose a lot.
Be a lady, wear sarees for sure.
Don’t sit cross legged,
It’s a crucial requirement on the ‘Lady list’ that needs to be checked.
How do I explain it to you mom,
Throw away the box now.
Neither will I fit, nor will I bow.