When Sleeping Women Awake, Mountains Will Move
by Sanya Duggal, India. First place in the Writory International Poetry Contest, March 2026, scored 97 out of 100.
When Sleeping Women Awake, Mountains Will Move By Sanya Duggal Growing up in a small Indian city, late '90s, early 2000s in sight, I heard what every girl was told—be obedient, don't ignite. Don't be opinionated, don't let your voice take flight, Be a good girl, stay quiet, blend into the night. Don't roam too far, don't be loud, don't talk to boys in the crowd, Sit with knees together, hair tied, skirts long and proud. Remember, "girls should be seen, not heard," they'd say aloud, And if you're short, dark, or fat, fix yourself—don't stand out in the crowd. "Who will marry you?"—that's the question they'd repeat, Yet boys my age never faced this same defeat. I thought this was right, the world's expected feat, You don't question, you conform, you accept and retreat. But then came corporate life, where opinions found their place, My height, my skin, my shape—none could erase The value of my work, my drive, my pace— What I brought to the table, not my looks, won the race. Worked hard, year on year, earned well, studied more, Built my identity, opened every door. I thought this made us equal, men and women at the core, But questions kept arising, I couldn't ignore. Why is a woman, in the eyes of law, always "daughter of" or "wife of" a man? Never by her mother's name, though she's the one who began Her life, her journey, her very own plan— A man is "son of his father," but never "son of" a woman who ran Her own race, built her own clan. Why, after all the success, is she judged for her face? At marriage, her looks and build take center place. Her identity, her career, her professional grace— Why do these not matter in the marriage chase? Why does she go from Ms to Mrs, while he's always Mr, unchanged? Why does her marital status need to be her salutation, as arranged? Why must she wear sindoor, mangal sutra, chooda—her life re-arranged? Pretty, yes, but why is only she marked, while he remains estranged? Why must she change her surname, join his family's name, While he keeps his, never expected to do the same? She cares for his parents, that's the usual claim, But he's not obliged for hers, though their status is the same. And when she leaves her childhood home, inheritance slips away, "She's not part of this family now," that's what they say. Her brother gets the property, she's left with dismay, And in her new home, no question of inheritance, she's still "from another family" anyway. The same family that raises her, and the one she marries into, Pray to goddesses to bear her a son—irony shining through. It makes me wonder, what's our identity, what's true? Are we equal, or just a 'good girl' conforming to what we're told to do? You don't question, you conform, that's the old refrain, But look closer, even in modern India, the patterns remain. At restaurants, the bar menu goes to the man, the food menu to the dame, The bill handed to him, as if it's always the same. When a car's stuck in traffic, the blame is quick and unfair, "Oh, it must be a female driver," is the comment in the air. Most women have jobs, not careers, with time to spare, So she can care for the family, while he climbs the corporate stair. When a woman rises high, "diversity" is the claim, Her job often ends at marriage, as if it's just a game. Why is marriage a gateway to financial dependence and shame? Why not celebrate her ambition, her own name and fame? Look around—how many women, rich and powerful, do you see, Who built it on their own, not as someone's "Mrs." or "to be"? Who buy homes, drive luxury cars, make decisions freely, Who build businesses, lead, and shape their own destiny? Staying fit, looking good, dressing well—her constant test, Society expects it from her, but lets men rest. Men aren't pressured to lose weight or look their best, For them, it's an option, for her, it's a quest. And if she's rich and thriving, expectations don't cease, She must stay slim, look pretty, keep the family at peace. And never bruise her man's fragile ego, never let her power increase, She's expected to nurture, to serve, never to release. You don't question, you conform, that's the tale we're told, But today, I ask you—observe, be bold. Question the norms, let your story unfold, For young sisters, daughters, mentees—let new equal dreams be sold. Why do we pressure men to support, women to suppress their might? Why care more for appearances than for what's right? Why feel guilty for not having it all in sight? It's time to question, to change, to ignite. Let's build our identities, let's break the mold, Fulfill our desires, let our stories be told. Own our spaces, reach for goals bold, Lead businesses, earn PhDs and 'Dr.' titles, let our futures unfold. Let's become the richer person, own homes, make our mark, Show the world our power, ignite every spark. Leave a legacy of equity, not just numbers in the dark, But a society transformed—socially, culturally, a new arc. We must question, not conform, let our voices be heard, Awaken the world, move mountains with our word. As the ancient proverb says, let our spirits rise and prove — When sleeping women awake, mountains will move.
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