The Wardrobe Talk

A shorts, a dress, a burqa, sportswear and a salwar suit
closet for a sartorial meet.

They had transcended cultures to tackle the infringement
of the right to wear — an imposed code of dress policing.

Shorts: The long legs I reveal in a westernised world,
a source of ogle and piercing words.
Powerfully worn on a global stage; a leotard or a unitard,
not a cape for your baser instincts.

The cropped top and the exposed midriff, not an open invite
the closed tunnel of long sleeves, echoes with whistles
the cleavage scarves flutter in the catcalls breeze
the dupatta, not a signet of what lies in me
et tu burqa, not an inch of error, yet an eve tease victim.

Be it liberal or conservative; be it the West or the Mideast
or peninsular Asia, we feel the eyes hovering all over us:
we hear the profanities cast: we share a similar story,
scripted by the self-assumed custodians of our bodies.

My body, my right, my comfort,
No one can dictate what I choose — to wear.
No right you own to police the outer garment
when your spirit garment is tainted.

Humanity breaking the uncharted frontiers of outer space,
Yet, your unascended self, hovers around a Georgia O’Keeffe.
If my attire invites impropriety, why not meld all and
sew a chagowr1 of fig leaves announcing your ignoble urges.