Be Polite, Dear Poem by ashok jadhav

(A calm voice, edged with restraint. The speaker stands composed, hands folded, eyes sharp.)

Be polite, dear.
That's what they told me—
as if kindness were a leash,
as if manners could mute the storm.
So I learned to lower my voice
when it shook with truth.
I learned to smile
while swallowing fire.
Be polite, dear,
even when you are interrupted,
even when you are dismissed,
even when your pain makes the room uneasy.
Politeness became my armor—
smooth, shining,
never questioned.
And beneath it,
I learned how to bruise quietly.
They praised me for being "nice, "
for not making trouble,
for knowing my place
in conversations that never left room.
But tell me—
when did respect start meaning silence?
When did good manners
replace self-respect?
Be polite, dear,
they said,
as if dignity must always whisper.
Tonight, I unbutton this gentleness.
Not to be cruel.
Not to be loud.
But to be honest.
I can be polite
and still be firm.
I can be kind
and still refuse.
So hear me clearly—
this courtesy is a choice,
not a command.
Be polite, dear—
yes.
But never at the cost
of disappearing.