Chele ke dan dike den.
Phonetics aren’t table talk,
Consider themselves connoisseurs for stenciling cover art
For viewing on the GhoraGari–
Father doesn’t know your name,
Which would be fine if he wasn’t your cousin,
More a relay,
You are not sent anywhere,
You go home,
And are cooked in-house
By pobitro baburchi, under tomar shashurir wardenship.
-highfalutin philosophizing hurts my ears,
You are an independent woman,
Most likely a post-graduate,
Which might not be true, but the narrative is unhindered,
You can make your own decisions and are with the man you love.
You don’t need Steinem over here to anglicize your thoughts,
And all that ritualistic slaughter shit is just an elaborate filter
For the old guard to make themselves feel relevant, still;
So what if they get a hujur to spit verses,
While the opposing patriarchs put pen to paper,
And what’s the problem, even then,
If the entire press corps starts flashing.
Some acquiescence on your part to your emotionally blackmailing ghusti.
So you can live, finally.
BFF has his insta-filter on,
You may tilt her chin up slightly as to relieve her of her contractual eating disorder, now,
Post-selfie, please do whistle for the porter to evacuate the luggage off the loading bay,
And those tarmac pumpkin carriages wheel, you and your shompotti, to Noakhali,
“biyer pore coaching ta shesh koro” and other such aphorisms.