Kshipra
When I transfer food from
my plate to our house help’s,
I ask him to place his
plate on the floor. My
upper-caste father says our women
must not hand anything to
lower-caste men, fearing our
skins might ignite sparks
in our minds and genitals.
A few months ago, my
hands trembled as I served
my father halwa. He was
shouting at my mother for
not making it like his
mother used to. His mother
was shouted at by my
grandfather for not making it
like his mother did. His
voice made my grip falter,
and the bowl slipped
from my hands. He yelled at
me for an eternity. Since then,
I stopped serving him food.
Even his water bottles, I leave
on the ground and walk away.
~~~
Kshipra is a Political Science postgraduate and writer with a passion for exploring the intersection of politics, literature, and society.
