Always set to wake up the sun,
My Indian women are on the run,
All day long from dawn to dusk,
Scorched and baked like a tiny rusk!

All they knew was to serve their husband,
No matter he is lively or sober,
Not because he gave love and fund,
But because he gave the rank of ‘mother’!

Husband’s order was the first book,
And she followed it with no second look!
For sure he was christened for others to call,
But she wasn’t for it even on last fall!

Boon she was for the chauvinist race,
Even if they showered their malicious grace!
Never did she see him face to face,
And followed him always with a shadow’s pace!

For anything in the world has to change,
And this unique scenario had no special range!
Calling a person by his very own name
Was not found wrong by our modern dame!

Wrong he was when he argued for fame
And punishable he was for excuses lame!
Serving the wife is no big deal
And they bet for sure, it is no ordeal!

Equally they placed the men and women,
And argued they are all completely common!
This is the fashion right on date
And it continues now, with none to abate!