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A woman of thousand hands,
Never I could imagine,
When I was just Ten,
My Mother said she has,
At twenty five, after my marriage,
I really found those thousand hands,
Attached very close to my arms,
And I am still pleading god for some.

Before the cock coos my mornings wake,
Kitchen chaos with oil spills and burnt fingers,
Pressure cooker whistles and washing machine grunts,
Coffee to in laws and Green tea to husband,
School bus horns always haunt,
To feed their break fast makes me gaunt,
To pack their lunch and daily books,
And search all around for the little one's missed notebook

The socks and lace of my husband shoes,
Always play hide and seek to choose
His shirt and trousers neatly ironed
To tie his tie he roars like lion,
When omelet and sandwich toasted brown,
His face turns red and gruesome,
When he skips his breakfast for the 8 clock train,
My heart slips a beat to feel his hunger pain

The dinning table chairs are booked,
To serve my in laws with what was cooked,
Mocking stories and ill treating attitude,
Not a pinch of love or pleasing gratitude,
I swallow my tears for no time to wipe,
They always show their royal hype,
Seven years in their home,
They just  look me like a servant with broom.

My saree and blouse dumped in cupboard,
Nothing matching and nothing good,
To tie them around with hooks and pins
It pricks my fingers but no time to clean the redskin,
What is left in the empty vessels
Fills my hungry stomach muscles
With little packed in shoulder bag,
And a portion of that to the pet that wags.

I run with heavy heart and soul,
So many thoughts and worries roll,
The bus stand queue shakes my leg,
The crowded Omni with no seats to beg,
Swiped my card but 10 minutes late,
Nothing can change, this is my fate
The ardent boss and flowing files,
Not one day enough to clear those piles,

When I sat on my seat,
Tears rolled down my cheeks,
Like a horse in the Derby race,
I run for life with out rest or space,
The credits goes to the Jockey on top,
Nobody notices the poor horses eye drop,
This is the destiny of working women like me,
Who serve as roots for the beautiful fruit tree.
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