God’s Phone Number

“God, why have you allowed me to be born this way? Why not as a boy, like my good and pious father prayed you three times for?”

My mother fought my first battle

when I let out my cry on this Earth,

protecting me from my family

who reasoned that a tiny girl

should pay for a sin she committed

before she was born.

Enlightened twelve years too late,

I let the tears flow down my cheeks,

each one turning to stone

pushing me deeper into the ground.

Why does he not want me?

What should I become

so that he loves me?

My poor mother tried to explain

society is a river, providing men

with boats to sail through,

and women with monsters who drown them.

I countlessly prayed

yet He never replied.

“God, I beg of you. No matter what happens- do not let him rob me of my own body, for I do not know how to retrieve it back.”

Womanhood,

the sun that helps flourish,

and the hand that firmly strangles.

He tenderly holds me

instilling a terror I had never known,

as he rendered my fourteen year-old body useless.

The hoarse sound coursed through fistfuls of my hair

as I choked on the cologne of unwavering power.

Each time, a petal of the fragile daisy crumpled

under the kindness of a man who colored my life

and blinded my eyes.

I came to hate my womanhood

for the reasons I should cherish it.

I see my sister grow,

slowly starting to embrace her womanhood,

I swore

that nothing under my watch

will ever shatter it.

But of course,

I couldn’t stop the shattering of my own.

I countlessly prayed.

yet He never replied.

“God, why is it that when a woman is adorned in the splendor of the goddess, she is revered, but when she proudly displays her sullied skin, she is repulsed?”

As I approach marriage,

I accept that I will live,

and then die.

I am owned by my Hindu father,

who raised me to be subservient to others,

I will be controlled by my Hindu husband,

who will force me to be subservient to him,

I will be shaped by my Hindu son,

who will teach me to be subservient to his future.

I am not, however,

ever servient to myself.

My genitalia determines the importance

I am regarded with.

My figure determines the approval

I am rated with.

My choices determine the respect

I am treated with.

I do not own, however,

acceptance of myself.

I touch the feet of the restrictions that pierce my skin,

and garland the injustices that shatter my body.

Society says to the Indian girl, “You deserve nothing”

borne from the reality of

“You are nothing.”

I countlessly prayed.

yet He never replied.

“God, thank you for the gift of voice- I can now bellow proudly within my cage.”

My life was spared when I was born,

but my voice was not so lucky.

Swifty cut through, she was to never utter a single sound.

She laid there naked, no fire burning in her belly,

listening to the voices around her thundering the jungle.

She was tortured with hate,

diseased without company,

withered in sorrow.

But she did not allow herself to die.

She forced herself to stand up, to heal,

to learn to sing again.

She embraces the love, the sadness, the anger,

and completely melts within.

Today, she is a lioness, covered in forever scars,

who roars long and hard for all,

and most importantly,

for herself,

to hear amongst the jungle.

She can achieve her dreams

that lay among the stars.

She can live her life

that continues to beat.

She realizes

everything she could ever ask for

was born within her.

I countlessly prayed.

yet He had already replied.