India Poem by Maya Patel

India. Home to the scorching hot sun and the concrete that absorbs it all,
And yet,
I have to wear a full sleeved, loose flannel and leggings that have to reach my ankle, like I'm in forty degree weather.
My mother tells me to fetch the groceries every morning,
each time, I gaze up at the men who supposedly want to do things to me if I'm not covered, not an inch showing,
And I wonder what it would be like to finally wear shorts.
And I tell my mother about it,
Tell her about the heat strokes,
Tell her about how crushed my body feels below the heat,
And she tells me one thing, and I can see the sadness under her eyes, too.
I trust you, but I don't trust the world.
India. Home to one of the most beautiful weddings and veils and ceremonies that catch your eye,
And yet,
I have to be prepared to give up my freedom the day those things happen to me.
My mother tells me that consent doesn't exist once I'm married off, and neither does the right to my own body when my father in law beats me over dowry.
And I wonder what it's like to marry out of love.
So I complain to my mother about it,
Show her the scars carved on my body,
The body she gave birth to and sang lullabies to in a cradle,
And she tells me one thing, shoving away her affection for me.
You belong to them, not to us anymore.

India. Home to the second highest population in the entire world.
And yet,
Not one person out of the 1.4 billion want to question the man in the bus.
When he brushes up against me, I remember what my mother told me, it's your fault for wearing those jeans.
And I wonder what it's like to wear some jeans without those stares.
So I told my mother again.
I told her why I preferred to walk a few bus stops as opposed to being on the bus.
I told her why I tried to skip going to college on some days,
And she tells me one thing, like she's been through it for centuries already.
You can only be silent and not make a fuss, that's how men are.

India. Home to one of the richest educations.
And yet,
I don't hear anyone teaching about consent.
When people assume that rape is a domino effect of my clothes, I wonder if my mother was right all along.
I wonder what it's like to wear a blouse a bit too tight without getting unwanted attention,
So I tell my mother again, I beg her.
I beg her, asking to be away from men,
I beg her, asking if I could do anything to change this,
And she tells me one thing, like she's talking to a younger version of herself.
This is what you have to put through for being a girl.

India. Home to my relatives, the luscious fields, and home to everything I know.
And yet,
Sometimes I don't feel safe walking to places.
When I realize that it's not just the streets, but my loves ones who also suppress my need to freedom as well, I remember that my mother always told me, she would protect me, no matter what.
I wonder what it's like for every male to treat every girl like that.
So I ask my mother, I beg her,
I tell her to leave my father alone when he beats her,
I tell her to tell someone about what he does to her at night.
And she tells me, like she's tried my advice a million times before,
People are just blind to our cries right now.