A silent prayer

He held her mercilessly,
With no remorse in his eyes.
Wrapped in a ragged cloth,
She stared, trying to understand his wrath.
An occasional quiver, a slight shiver.
Though tiny and speechless, she was intuitive about her impending future.

Pushed onto the side
Her mother stood stoic in silence.
This wasn’t the first and neither the last.
Though grief-stricken, her tears dried with experiences of the past.

As she drew closer to her dug-out grave,
She let out a whimper and wished to speak.
Her heart jumped - leaps and bounds,
As she hoped someone would notice the tears that rolled down.

Each tear held an untold plea,
A plea to let her live and see.
“I know you look me as a burden,
An expenditure, which would increase as I turn maiden.
I seem of no use besides being in the four walls of your mansion,
Just like an old piece of furniture or an oil-stained utensil.
Constantly reminding you how fruitful it would be to have bore a son,
Who would take care of your farm and not make you bear a dowry amount.
But I still beg for that one chance.
The chance to live, watch, feel and dance.
The chance to prove I am more than just furniture
That I can do all that your son can in the future.
Make a difference in your lives
And be the apple of my daddy’s eyes.
To let my mother relive her childhood,
And be your caregiver all through.
The chance to flip through books old and new,
Learn new arts and my worth prove.
To leave my footprints for others to follow,
And fill your hearts with pride and honour.
Give me a chance to live for others,
As a daughter, sister, friend and mother.
I know it’s tough but I continue to plead
And ask you to break the barriers to which society heeds.
As you bury me under the soil,
This same society you uphold will live in turmoil.
It’s not just a daughter you are killing,
But future sons, whom without a daughter would not come into being.
I pray for the last time as you lay me down
Spare me and save your future now.”

But alas! Her pleas were left unheard
As the sand suffocated her every whimper.
No one came forth, for her no one stood.
But continued to call themselves custodians of customs and all that’s good.
Like her, nameless, more girls will be buried alive,
And live we will in the darkness and die blind.

-By Zoha Tapia