In my dreams, I see patriarchy

wearing a saree,

braiding its daughter's hair

with a red ribbon

and teaching her not to

get pregnant with red fever-

"one day, when you'll sneeze,

red will sprinkle in

your mother's white saree

and a part of your heart

will crave for pixie dust."

During tea time,

it teaches her daughter,

how to use a mesh

to strain pieces of freedom

and serving the guests

with a cup full of fake smiles.

At dinner, the daughter learns

how to refrigerate the leftover love,

and use it again tomorrow,

mixing some more fake smiles-

so that the stale aftertaste subdues.

 The people I know devour

eating womanhood

like shredded cheese

sandwiching them between

two pieces of loaves, loathing to love.

The people I know-

knows nothing of the sky blending

with thousand 'manly' errors

and precipitating the 'womanly' errors,

like the tears of a woman in labour pain.

In between my grief becomes the product

of pan-fried dreams of a mother

and lazily sautéed patriarchy.

Later part of the dream

was about the chef of the dream-

knitting hundreds of desires

which would remain in one corner of

the cupboard like an unused cupcake mix

waiting to reach the expiry date.

 The patriarchy I saw in my dreams---

Oh! no, in my nightmares,

was a half-baked reality

getting automatically cooked

just like pickles kept in scorching sun.

The mothers in my reality are

like delivery boys working in Zomato or Swiggy-

they always carried sophisticated food

but never tasted their flavours.

And the fathers were like an order delivered late.

You ask about the people?

They are always like a stomach ache

confused with period cramps,

But  it was just indigestion,

Cuz all they ate were some street side

Superstitions overcooked with rumours & gossip.

 ~here lies flavours of us. Bon Appétit!