Enslaved by the talismans
Of scholarly tomes
Scribbled by mortal men
In their free time.
Called it a way of life,
Words of God,
Sermons of Prophets on a Cross
And from caves in faraway lands.
Cut, carved out, seemingly new
An identity you wear on your sleeve,
Over your head, like a crown
Or a thinning thread that severs, not binds
Ceremonies of differences, rituals of us and them
All legitimate, forged signatures of his name.
On his behalf, degrees of caste
On his behalf, rules of gender
On his behalf, customs of religion
On his behalf, proof of science
A duty of the upholders of God’s word.
They are divine, are they?
Demanding, divisive, feared, tyrannical.
So vain is your God?
Toe the line, you say.
A line you cross, unflinching.
Leaving humanity behind, in tatters.
For your obsessive-compulsive
insistence on symmetry.
Keep your tight-fisted dogmas
and loosely-held morals.
Keep your colored definitions
and grey notions of right.
Keep your garbs of tolerance
and promises of brotherhood.
And I’ll keep my distance.
I refuse to be your refuse.
Sadhana Subramanian was barely seven years old when the first flurry of words turned into verses on the back cover of a tattered telephone directory. Since then, she has written and edited short stories, poems, business and technology features, and reports for over a decade. Currently, she's a Senior Content Editor for a digital marketing agency and a marketing consultant for a B2B startup.