It was Green. The colour of her pain, the colour of the belief that a woman belonged to man. Man is an owner. She is his property. Mere property. Without him she has no right to exist.
They ordered Sati vastra for her. The beautiful green sari. As she walked towards the pyre, she gave away her ornaments to other married women, as a blessing. Blessing of a helpless dying woman.
The colour of her green sari slowly disappeared...behind the giant flames.
She screamed... may be. Nobody knows for sure. The drum beats were so loud. and anyways a voice of a woman was lower than a sound of hissing leaves in there...
Now there is a temple built on the place of pyre. She is called sati devi. The Tulsi vrindavan has her name engraved on it.
Now these tulsi leaves shake and try to make some noise. As if it is trying to tell something. But yet again she failed. Nobody can hear...nobody ever wanted to!
...
Years passed. Now they felt this is not cruel enough. Man evolved. so did his cruelty. Now they didn't want to burn her down. Instead they wanted her to live...to burn everyday, little by little. Now they wanted to burn down her will to live.
The color of this pain was Red. Blood red. They shaved her head. She had wounds all over her...some made with sharp blade on head, some without it...
Wrapped in blood red sari, she tried to cover all of them. Until one day one such wound, bore fruit. Which was breathing inside her. Now the family that deprived her of her dignity pushed her into the well to save their honour!
...
The desert that she was born in was famous for its colorful culture. and yet her life revolved around only one color. Deep blue. She wanted to scratch out her own eyes. So that at least she wouldn't see all those colours, which were forbidden for her.
...
Somewhere in Mediterranean, She locked all her beautiful satin gowns in a cupboard. Now that she had to wear black dress for the rest of her life.
...
She was robbed of her own house. The home that she had built. She was robbed of all the rights...on her land, her property. And was thrown out in the streets of vrindavan, now the rightful owner of the big house live in a cramped space. One who cooked meals for the entire family in big pots, survives on the morsels of charity.
Now the colour of her grief is white.
What is the matter with all these beautiful colours? how the delicate threads painted in these, become heavy shackles as soon as they are wrapped in the feet of women? May be it not the fault of these colours. May be it is not the fault of these delicate threads too...May be it is fault of these feet. Yes! indeed. It's the fault of these feet only. Which are the feet of women... not of a human being...The feet, whose destiny is like blank canvas; which is merely displayed on coloured easel.
