My mamma says we are poor,
I have to pray for a meal everyday.
My paapa works on a rented field,
I have to pray for days without debts.
My sister has mehendi on her hands,
I have to pray for a groom who asks less dowry.
This is my life everyday.
These are my prayers.
I have a God who comes in different names.
But he lives somewhere the monsoons come in right times.
Because nobody hears our prayers.
Neither the Gods claiming the heavens
Nor the Gods ruling our lands.
Hopeless, I take a wick out of our holy lamp
and light another lamp in our cold balcony.
In its pale yellow glow
I open the torn book
My teacher lent me
and starts reading:
“I have a dream…”
From above, the real God smiles
and lets the first drop of rain to fall.