Miss Nepals do not have sad eyes, unlike the rest of us

I watch her from across the room, sitting in my sad corner

Wishing I was not there. Quiet. But putting on my game face

She has black, long, luscious, salon curled ‘celebrity hair’

While mine is messy, srunchied after a long day at work

A ton of makeup on her face that took hours to get on

And will take hours to get off. It’s like a mask you put on

I know because I put on a bit of this mask everyday

A tight short mini dress that reveals her perky twin assets

In my mind, I call it the slutty secretary look

The look that’s in vogue, in all the magazines

Her legs are shapely and long and her bum is taut

(But is that bum real? One must ask. I heard padding is used even on the bum these days)

A full smile with bright lipstick and way, way happier eyes than mine

They have all the answers, they do, these beautiful, divine creatures

In their stiletto heels, strutting their asses this way and that, all over the country

In a country with no electricity most hours of the day, no running water

No petrol, no diesel, no gas for people to cook food on stoves with

In a country held hostage by a bunch of old men, jargon and rhetoric

Even well educated people in positions of power and esteem are

Mesmerized by them, and the whole show that is

“The Miss Nepal pageant,” well-lit and sooooo illusory

Meanwhile, outside, in the real world, it’s dark and miserable

Kids squint and try to finish their homework under a “tuki” light

Girls get raped in dark homes and alleys, molested by their own

Beautiful children are birthed to single mothers, with no right to belong

The real Miss Nepals do not get equal respect while on stage, everything glows

Every Nepali girl wants to be a Miss Nepal, apparently, if one will believe the ads

To sell paint, cars, clothes, vodka, cellular phones, banks, or more Miss Nepals

And every Nepali man wants a Miss Nepal to drape on his shoulder

Who wouldn’t? If I were a man, I might want one (or two or three) too

Or fantasizes about it while he is doing his wife, tired and beat, at home

(While she, eyes closed, is fantasizing about Bollywood hero, Salman Khan)

Where are those legs and ass to dig Mr. society’s frustrations into?

And happy, twinkly angelic “I’ll make everything alright” eyes?

Walking on that golden stage, showering dark and dingy Nepal

With air kisses that will take all our troubles away with a mere lifting of her hands

They’re like God’s angels, fairies, and if I believed in God, I would believe in them too

The way they walk and talk, the way they fling their hair back so graciously

The way they talk so intelligently, with so much clarity and so much po(i)se

The way they smile so invitingly, and hold that smile for several minutes at a time

They must have some serious muscles there, to hold a smile for so long

The rest of us are failing miserably, looking at ourselves in mirrors and

Practicing trying to bring out the twinkle in our eyes, and hold our smiles

But I see your sad eyes

Your story I can see in them

You can’t hide


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