Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Through My Window, You Must See

You think I’m just another woman on a bus—

Headscarf loose, gaze lost past the glass.

But this window isn’t just for looking—

It’s where I speak when the world won’t ask.

Born as human, shaped into silence,

Taught to tiptoe, speak sweet, serve tea.

A woman, they say, must earn her world

By shrinking to fit what they decree.

This pane—my second skin—

Holds reflections of rules I never wrote.

Glass ceilings hang like invisible clouds,

Their weight pressing down my throat.

Alice Walker once whispered to me—

Not in dreams, but in daylight rage:

“Our mothers wrote in gardens and grief,”

While men scrawled across history’s page.

I want to roam where signs say no,

Drive past dusk without fear’s refrain.

Not to shatter norms with noise—

But to sing against society’s chain.

Roles were handed like heirloom rings—

But I slip them off with steady grace.

I dare to tread the pebbled path,

To reach a self they can't erase.

See—there’s no meekness in this seat.

Only strength strapped in resilience.

I ride not just through traffic,

But through centuries of silence.

And if you hear in my stillness

The roar of something wild and free,

Know that locked doors may still exist—

But not for women like me.

Postscript (Walker’s Voice):

"I have walked that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter... and I have discovered that after climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb."

— Alice Walker

The Silent Commute

Windowpane blurs with breath and rain,

Veiling thoughts I can’t explain.

Faces flit past—unknown, unkind—

While I wander within my mind.

This bus, a cradle of crowds and care,

Holds my hush, my hidden prayer.

Home behind and work ahead—

In between, I hang by a thread.

Shoulders strong, smile stitched tight,

Yet weary with unvoiced fight.

Toni whispers in silent plea—

"You are your best thing," echoes in me.

But when will they see this silent toil—

Not just success, but scorched soil?

Labels like laurels, loosely bestowed—

“Superwoman” is a heavy load.

Woolf once wished for a room, a name,

Not bound to beauty, nor bruised by blame.

Have I that space, that sovereign right,

To speak in shade, to burn in light?

Between deadlines, diapers, dreams deferred,

My worth feels weighed but seldom heard.

I walk on wires strung thin by fate—

A mother, a maker, a muted state.

No medals for meals made with grace,

No claps for calm in a crowded space.

If only love could leap unsought,

Without my needing to be forgot.

But hush—my stop begins to near,

Hope halts the heart’s small fear.

Each morning may mute my song,

But silence never stays for long.

Today I rise, not just arrive,

In fragments flawed, I still survive.

Not to be fixed or merely found—

But to be fully, fiercely sound.

---

Setu, July 2025