The Train Station

She came to the train station

Looking for her path ahead

The morning dew had left the leaves; and she knew not if spring will come

Her hands were bruised, her palm held a silver

Eyes filled with pain but no time to cry, no shoulder to lean

The station was busy, the air was rough

Each train chugging by, each traveler hurrying past

Potters heaving, hawkers peddling

Not one did see the little girl

Not one did stop and ask

She sat in a cabin with powdered faces and hard looks

All she could do was move her hat and close her eyes

Before she could dwell in the loneliness of her heart,

she heard his voice;

‘Warm and concerned; genuine and dignified

Of happy thoughts and pleasant mornings

Sea gulls and wood fire ovens

Made of life, experience and wisdom

 Little did he care; for he could trade them for the sea ’

He looked into her soul and knew she had been waiting all along

Her smile warmed his heart, made him turn around and care

For she showed him, days of merry and dreams of cheer

The train chugged on

Leaving one station for another, one story for another

But little did they care for they found each other:

To seal a promise of love and care

To cherish each other with love and respect

Together they nurtured, together did they build

On hot summer days, as heavy fish he hauled,

Her smile made him smile, her call made him return

Where does feminism go from here?

I wanted to be a teacher all my school days, wanted to fall in love, during my college days and go to office during my PG days. In the process I became a self sufficent, practical, independent adult.
'Confidence' over took the akward timidness, reserved shy nature took to aggressive and pushy; sometime loud self assertiveness and the wonder in my eyes was replaced by mundane everyday practicality.
"I know," "I can do it myself", "I don't need a drop,"; my feministic brain never knew helplesness or submissive behaviour. "How am I going home?"; "You are so sweet" - alein words.
My prince in shinning armour did come and did sweep me off my feet but I lost on some of those mushy moments, chasing the stars; my prince didn't really have to rescue me. Much so I made the first move to capture my lover's attention.
And whatever fairy tale moments I did have, I felt, 'Oh, so guilty, why didn't I take care of it myself.'
So here I am, lighting a lone candle once in a while, buying a flower for myself, taking all my doctor's appointments, fixing the leaky tap, booking our vacations, handling hubby's work stress - without a day off! Phew!!!
Did Germaine Greer think of these while defining feminism? Does this make me a feminist, woman taking care of herself. Assertive, strong, presentable and independent?
And devoid of emotion sometimes? Don't feel guilty giving my husband the slient treatment. Though take his casual flirting in my stride, no tears lost there! Don't enjoy being the dependable agony aunt, who can take care of herself. Understand office pressures and lack of quality time only because have worked in an office before? Would rather be illiterate with an oily knot and fancy ribbon, cajoled by her lover to smile through her tears.
Where do we feminists go after this? While trying not to be a doormat, we become the rooster on the roof, pretty withstanding the seasons but unreachable.
I would anyday, go back to the days, where life was still a cramped book of secrets; waiting for the college hottie to make a move, awaiting a cousin's gift, expecting a pick up, looking for a 'guy' shoulder, asking silly questions for reassurance and giving teary explanations. Still like a guy to pay my bill, open the door for me and actually put his cigarete off.