There is this village not far away where women work and chime all day. They sing in fear, they sing in joy and they sing in hunger and in peace. They sing while they fill the pots and they sing as they cook the meals, and they sing while they dress the children and they sing as they rake the leaves.
Oh! What a happy sight to see a quaint town so happy and free where song pervades words and rhythm is the beat of the heart. And serenading to the tunes of nature young men attempt to steal a woman’s heart. Every different song special in its part.
But in that little town you’ll see a little lady in a white saree sitting aloof in her lone corner hut looking about at the other ‘vermillion marked’ doing their chores and serenading glee.
Amidst the mob of coloured wives she tries to find another like her; so she looks here and she looks there and she looks everywhere but failing her heart she could not see another white ‘tragedy’.
She sighs in sorrow, chin rested on one hand another fidgeting with her clothes. Oh what a dismal feeling it would be to be the only secluded plain saree.
That while the bangled arms might clap and red lips hum, with decorated heads nodding and swaying, she should just sit with empty wrists and plain forehead and drown into the sad ballads of her white loss.
Such hurting is the view of this secluded serenader sitting aloof in her lone corner hut hearing nothing but mocks all day and as night falls looking at the stars and crying anyway. Resenting the loss of her only one and hating her kin for cladding her in white separating her from the other colours.