Tradition & Custom

Echoes of
On the day of departure,
even if the bride’s eyes refuse to shed tears,
tears must be summoned—
for otherwise, before society’s gaze,
it seems incomplete.
The groom too,
matching her tune,
sheds a few silent drops…

The very daughter who once clung to her parents in tearful embrace,
in that theatrical farewell,
will she ever again see those very faces the same way?
For once she steps into another’s house,
bearing a new surname,
her family has shifted—
her identity rests at her husband’s door.

It is the son who is deemed true identity,
for whom countless vows and rituals
are offered before the gods.
Yet, is it he
who holds his parents to his chest?
Feeds them with care each day,
when his wife steps into the courtyard?
To call another woman “mother”
feels like shame.
And when the father calls out loudly in public,
the son hushes him—
“How many times have I told you,
don’t embarrass me before others,
just because you’re my father.”

Still, in this unbroken cycle of custom,
faith runs deep.
Even after four children,
hope does not die—
the fifth must surely
be a son.
This desire,
night after night,
burns like incense—
yet no fragrance ever truly fills the air.

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