Born of Goddesses, Not by Chance: A Poem on Colourism, Patriarchy, and the Hypocrisy of Worshipping Women.
I come from the land of goddesses —
Invincible, divine power, and a fierce warrior.
To celebrate her divine nature, her powerful energy,
each state, each region stands with different folk art.
Yet a question lingers,
a thought races each time:
When worshipping goddesses,
asking for wealth, love, and forgiveness —
then why, for the living ones,
is it a living hell?
Violence, threat — even worse.
Only dignity was left, yet we used that to curse.
We celebrate her,
sacrifice our hunger by keeping fast —
filthy mind, a hateful heart, and faces covered with masks,
only to call each living one a slut, at last.
Dark-skinned, brown, dusky —
and the list can go on.
We guard her worth for marriages,
making sure to find a virgin, not a slob —
even if the son himself
needs to consult a neurosurgeon.
I wonder if you are also offended —
seeing them harassing, beating, and shaming us?
Names on walls, vulgar drawings behind closed doors —
a demonic Satan locked in the male’s dressing room,
possessing each man and his mind,
Yet, dragging a female openly in a public courtroom.
I am a female — the nurturer,
the soul of the womb.
I can’t take poison or hatred to consume.
I think
I have yet to witness the battle
between soil and desert —
While one is pitch dark, the other scorches the hand.
But while claiming, I never saw
a man fighting over the colour of land.
Maybe it’s not them — it’s the society,
Spewing patriarchy, scattering dusty ideas, unplanned.
Yet I know within, we admire the dark soil
when it’s fertile, when it’s the season to grow.
You take its beauty, and the wealth it bestows,
but what about those acres of desert —
isolated, barren, where we burn our silence in bonfires?
Unbearable —
the heat by day, the chill at night.
What an irony, what a natural satire!
Should I show my skin,
Or leave them in their nuance?
I am a creation of God,
who crafted galaxies, stars, skies —
celestial bodies, gravity — perfect divine.
So I am dead sure
I am not of this colour by mistake or by chance.
The voices, the taunts, the tantrums —
It’s the self-hatred that runs deep within them.
I cannot stand beside and be a sinner,
for what I know —
I am God’s art, God’s creation,
I belong to the divine, and
I surrender myself to the supreme
a beginner at heart,
a soul reflecting moonbeam —
born of galaxies, not by design.
If you enjoyed this poem, you might love Perhaps, it was love — a collection of verses on longing, love, and the spaces in between.
Buy my book: Perhaps, it was love (https://sandhyaarya.gumroad.com/l/lbxqp)
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© 2026 Sandhya Arya. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this poem may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
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