Temple

 

You teach us the divinity of temple grounds,
The sacredness past the mortal bounds.
You explain how "Pran Pratishta" is done in those stone moulds,
And how it feels closer to the divine home.

Yet you often forget this body is my temple too,
My soul lives between these skin and bones too.
You go to war if they disintegrate or ruin it,
And energy released is painful.

Then why do you say I am dramatic?
Who will fight my war?
I never said I am God,
But am I not a creation of that divine thought?

Then why can't I weep for how they touched me with their lust?
Why am I called names for my rightful outbursts?
You teach me in detail about the sacred grounds,
But forget that I am as much a part of it.

You love adorning them with flowers and jewels,
When I put on makeup and adorn myself with silver and gold,
Why must it be seen as vanity, not a reflection of my soul?
You bow down in temples and ask for abundance,
But hurt my very soul.

The others might have looted this land and made you slaves,
But why do you still punish your daughters for it?
You were the land called "Sone Ki Chidiya,"
But you only feel proud about it from nostalgia.

Teach them they are temples again,
Not to have fake pride in your religious dogma,
But in the living and breathing essence.

Teach your sons too,
Not to shame us for not smoking, drinking, or indulging in worldly vices,
Not to measure our worth by their distorted standards,
But to recognize the divine in us—
In our purity, our strength, and our truth.

And to the men who’ve desecrated girls like me for selfish gain—
May you know the weight of your shame.