Someone else’s daughter

Published: March 21, 2013
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She is confused at my non-existent existence. PHOTO: AFP

My daughter is a young lady now,

A ‘woman of the time’,

Geared up to conquer the world.

 

With all the support and confidence,

Of her family,

And above all,

Her father,

Behind her.

 

Her questions have also matured,

She is perplexed to see,

My diplomas and degrees,

Talent and dreams,

Gathering dust in musty, dog-eared folders,

Packed away in dusty, yellowing, cardboard boxes;

A graveyard of evidence,

That I, too, was a woman of my time.

 

She is confused at my non-existent existence,

An email-less, Facebook-less, cell-phone-less, near-servile existence.

 

‘My father is the best man in the world’,

She proclaims proudly,

Then questions,

The different boundaries,

That define the identities,

Of two women,

In the same house.

 

I know I can put an end,

To all her questions,

With just one statement,

She is still not mature enough,

To comprehend,

The abysmal depth,

Of my answer.

 

It requires a wisdom

Beyond her callow years,

That it is because,

I am someone else’s daughter.

 

Read more by Aalia here

aalia.suleman

Aalia Suleman

A freelance writer and poet who is keenly interested in the status of women in 21st century Pakistan. Her writing also zones in on Pakistan's new social and political status on a redefined global chessboard. She has a masters degree in English Literature and blogs and invites debates at 'Socio-politically Pakistani'. She tweets @aaliasuleman (twitter.com/aaliasuleman)

The views expressed by the writer and the reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of The Express Tribune.