I wear a decent saree
but my soul is naked,
scarred by the knives of your ignorance,
my wings torn off by malevolent hands,
my blood drunk in fancy glasses.
Mixed with beer,
I float in the foam.
You ingest me,
You take over my identity;
and my bangles ring like temple bells
when I wash the utensils,
when I repeatedly switch TV channels,
searching for a story that does not exist,
for it was murdered before it was born.
I am not a woman.
I am an eternal soul blessed with potential
and assigned a purpose by my maker;
and I wait for a dawn
that will melt the shackles
that I wear on my arms,
and soak off the vermilion
that belittles my significance.