Papa, I tried. 
I tried to colour only inside the lines. 
I tried to always get good grades.
I tried to be seen and not heard. 
God knows, I tried. 
Perhaps I wasn’t made to be a cookie
One of many in a packet. 


Mama, I tried. 
I tried to always sit with my knees together. 
I tried to make rotis round as the moon. 
I tried to perfectly French braid my hair. 
God knows, I tried. 
Perhaps I wasn’t made to model
The role of perfect femininity.


Granny,  I tried. 
I tried to be kind and smart
And docile and brave and caring
And accomplished all at once. 
I tried to be you, or atleast the way
They told me you were. 
God knows, I tried. 
Perhaps I wasn’t made to measure up to these standards. 


Uncle, I tried.
I tried to let my biological clock
Panic-induce me into love marriage and the baby carriage.  
I tried to want the way of the white picket fence with as much fervour
As I want love, peace and connection. 
God knows, I tried. 
Perhaps I wasn’t made for blissful convention. 


People, I tried. 
I tried to fit into one of the boxes you offered me. 
I tried to squish myself into roles that made me smaller. 
I tried to reach expectations that stretched me thin. 
God knows, I tried. 
Perhaps I was meant to build my own boxes
And grow out of them. 

Perhaps we all were.Β 


Β©Shweta Bhat

Photo by Curology on Unsplash

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