Midnight hours and worldly sounds were dying,
The moon peeped through cloudy sky as if it is spying,
Thump, thump, there was knock on her door,
Her sunken eyes lit up once more.
After many months came this rare occasion,
To earn some money out of her vocation,
Those knocks were a welcome invasion,
To put an end to many nights of starvation.
From those visitors she didn’t ask any explanation,
She dressed quickly and fittingly for the occasion,
She is no whore, don’t carry any false notion,
She just sells her tears but with devotion.
Bereft of emotion, she just goes through some motions,
She is the essential part of those thirteen days celebration,
Tears, wails and shrieks come out without hesitation,
Though with the heaven bound souls she had no relation.
She cries, she screams and she grieves,
For some free meals and some rupees,
Sitting and wailing in those gloomy grooves,
Making all those fake mourning moves.
She had cried enough tears to solve any water crisis,
For all those lecherous men lived in vices,
Those men who need borrowed tears for salvation,
May I call, it the wretched society’s perversion.
Every time a visitor call up to condole the death,
The Rudali wails louder beating her chest with gasping breath,
She is the mourner for those who can’t wail,
Their sighs do freeze and tears drops hail.
Near and dear ones restrained from mourning,
Even at the dust of earth returning,
Tear drops cascading down the cheeks are hidden,
For grieving in public is the act forbidden.
Rudali supplies her tears for the fate of those and of her own,
Hoping those wails reach God up above in the horizon,
She will cry for all but who will cry over her pyre?
Who will be Rudali for her once to lend their tears?