These people love
to talk about my roots
but won’t ever mention
the peril of their fertilisers,
and how fortunate I was
to escape from them,
even though that meant
running to my colonisers.
These people always
remind me that India is home
but won’t ever talk about how
I am treated like a foreigner
as soon as I enter.
In their minds
I have relinquished
my mother tongue,
but love is a
universal language
and if I can speak it fluently
why does it matter
if I stutter in Punjabi?
These people tell me that
my dressing is too risqué
but won’t admit that even
a fully clothed woman
is considered prey.
These people preach about God,
and oh, the irony.
You see in my country,
an uncle will put his hands
on his niece’s body and
use those very hands to pray
as if he isn’t aware of his
blasphemy and
diabolic hypocrisy.
The young girl will stay silent
for fear of being blamed
because young girls are
taught accountability
before they are old enough
to spell the damn word.
These people talk about family,
yet they will slam the door
on their married daughters
because they believe that
it is better for a woman
to stay in marital misery
than to be tarnished with the label
‘female divorcee.’
These people preach morality,
yet they normalise the misogyny
that runs through a predator’s veins
and consequently blame
the woman for her ordeal,
because rape is a crime
in which the victim
is given a
life sentence.
Loving this country
is like loving an abuser.
I become defensive
when people say
offensive things,
although I know
they’re true,
and isn’t that exactly
what you do
when you love an abuser?
I will never be able
to call this country home,
for there is nothing
more dangerous
than turning an
abuser into home.
Manveen Kaur Kohli is a poet with no filter. Brace yourselves!
Image courtesy of Pexels.