I was sitting an afternoon,
Pondering over the ancient query,
“Who am I?”, my mind questioned,
“Which one?”, asked my soul.
Mind thought it was the fox,
Soul wanted to be the fawn.
Which one was the right one to be,
Because, the audience forbids a woman be both.
The white swan or the black; Odelle or Odette?
Madonna or the seductive whore?
Where else do you find a woman,
But, ofcourse, on a bed or in a priory.
Double standards of permanence,
Lynched, bloodied, beaten, and battered duality,
The life of a woman; promiscuous or chaste?
Too audacious to keep or simply waste.
Why can’t I be doe-eyed by the sunrise,
And femme fatale past sunset?
Must I play a two-dimensional actress in this theatre,
A pervasive space demanding appropriate, stylised gestures?
But then the audience would ask me to be both,
Demand me to be both.
The virgin and the harlot,
Walk the tight rope of perfection – a package they’d call me.
I would behold all the mirrors but just enough,
I would hesitate shyly and humbly but just enough,
I would be naive and dumb myself down,
I would be conniving and scheming but not threatening.
I will dance the dance till all eyes are on me,
I will dance the dance till everyone nods happily.
I will dance the dance till the applaud turns into uproar,
I will dance the dance till I cannot dance anymore.
The actress is dead and the audience has left,
The stage has broken and the theatre is closed.
I will be black or white or both,
I could be Madonna and I might be the whore.