By: Ammara Shah

I don’t want to tell my daughter

The tales of my decline and fall

The tales of my compromises

And fake smiles

I want to show her the bruises

The wounds, the blood, the scratches

I had through those terrible fights

Against patriarchy, misogyny, sham honour,

uncalled-for modesty, idiotic traditionalism and social injustice

I don’t want to tell my daughter

The tales of mourning-driven wakeful nights

Tears geared by and on misfortune,

Reminiscing Tennyson’s “idle tears”

I want to tell my daughter

Tales of the nights

In whose loneliness I weaved dreams,

With eyes, far away

From tranquil slumber.

And of the agony of realising those dreams:

Dragging myself on thorn-strewn path,

Gleaning bruises instead of roses,

Awaiting blissful dawn.

The dawn in whose wistful longing

Light started to rake in my petrified eyes

The dawn whose wistful advent

Will pour upon her a life

Away from shadow of

Patriarchy, misogyny, sham honour, uncalled-for modesty, idiotic traditionalism, social injustice

And mullah’s self crafted bracketing sin