T H R I V E

When Radha and Sita
together
flared up the fire
of a thousand morning suns,
you rushed ahead
like a hurricane wind
veiling their glory in your clouds of doom
“protecting” the world
from our radiance.

But

When the young girl
wrote letters to her Sakhi,
letters, brimming with crimson rage
and spurned desires
you frowned, you muttered, you fussed.
But her words,
like stardust
danced on in the midnight
between your abject darkness,
and our laboured dawn.

You shoved us into the dungeons of your ancient minds,
cold-walled, dark, desperate dungeons.
Closets, as they’re called.
The walls reeked of your displeasure,
there was loathing in the air,
and the lights,
the lights had shunned us long ago.
We had lived quiet, half-lives
in the dingy corners of this world,
bereft, desolated, abandoned.
Led to believe
that the loneliness was thrust upon us by the Gods.
The same Gods
which ask you to love, and give
the same Gods
who created us with just as much magic
as you.

We told you,
we’re flesh and blood too.
But all you did
was flay.
And our blood, running dry
escaped from our bodies
as though it had made sense
of the unworthiness
branded upon us.


How convenient must it have been
to look at world in black or white.
To ignore, remain oblivious
to all that it takes
to make white white
and black
black.

Did our bright hues, our relentless zest
Rattle you?

Listen closely.
Wrapped, in the whistle of the winds
you will hear
our chants,
resonating, deafening, growing louder
with each breeze.
You will hear
our footsteps
approaching, forging, drawing closer
with each depravity.

If nothing could stop Alexander
from making the world his playground
what makes you think
that your words, seething with envy,
stand a chance
against the tranquil of our hearts?

for what is the strength of a thousand men
against desire?