The Tale of Miss Tulip Shah

Tulip, was her pretty name.
Her parents you see had always wanted,
An English medium graceful Dame,
That turned heads and walked undaunted,
Down their dreary gully Lane,
With English medium feet and sandals,
And a parasol that stayed the Rain,
And the Gaze of scoundrels wanting Scandals.
But alas, their lovely daughter,
Was neither fair nor grace inclined,
And all her tutors would tread water,
While all her suitors left her, declined.
But one sultry summer day,
A man with a pompous pompadour,
Done up with pomade from Dubai,
Where he had gone, wanting more.
Now settled at some clerical job,
He had come back to obey,
The need of parents to Rob,
A bride’s family someday.
The parents chittered chattered,
While the to be bride was looking coy,
They drank chai and was inward flattered,
That they had attracted a foreign settled boy!
The dates and dowries now were fixed,
Like Azhar’s matches at the behest of a sagacious sage,
Who had smoked his chillum and looked at the charts, transfixed,
And declared an auspicious date when he’d been paid his wage.
The wedding was common, but not so was their marriage,
For as soon as they had consummated, and then later emigrated,
She found Joy in her expecting and Sorrow in her miscarriage.
So she was sent back to her family’s care where she waited,
Haplessly for some reply to her calls and texts,
From her husband who had eloped with an Arab beauty,
Who’d sunk him in the sandpit of Joy’s elusive depths,
That whispered Seduction to forsake his husbandly duty.
And so she learnt a lesson: Don’t let your husband go to Dubai,
Or for that matter to any city when he’s wavering, for then Voila!
He shall recede away in silence with dowry and no sweet Goodbye,
This has been the story of one most unfortunate, our wilted Miss Tulip Shah.

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