The little girl, barely six years old, sat on the cold stone floor of the monastery, her small fingers clutching a tattered piece of cloth, a gift from her mother. Tears brimmed in her large, innocent eyes as she waited, unaware of the cruel truth that her parents would never return.

They had told her they would come back after a short trip, leaving her in the care of the priest and priestess. But the reality was far more devastating. In a heartless act rooted in superstition, they had married her to a boy who had already passed away, performing the rituals of a wedding that was, in essence, her condemnation to widowhood. The boy's family only did the act necessary for the peace of his deceased soul and avoided misfortune. They paid the girl's family handsomely for this. However, when the boy's family refused to accept her into their home, her parents, unable to bear the societal stigma, abandoned her at the monastery under the guise of piety.

Days turned into weeks, and the girl’s longing for her parents grew unbearable. She would sit by the monastery gates every evening, watching the horizon, hoping to see them appear. The priest and priestess, kind yet distant, avoided her questions, their silence an answer in itself.

One day, an elder priestess, her face weathered with years of hardship, sat the girl down. Her voice was soft but firm as she spoke the words that would shatter the child's fragile world.

"You are a widow now, child. The customs of our society dictate that you must live here, dedicate your life to prayer, and wear the white of mourning."

The little girl did not understand.

"What is a widow?" she asked, her innocent voice trembling.

The priestess struggled to find words, finally saying,

"It means you were married, but your husband has gone to the heavens. Now, you must live a pure and simple life, free from worldly attachments."

"But I want to go home," the girl pleaded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I miss my Ma and Baba."

The priestess’s heart ached, but she could do nothing. The girl was now bound by the harsh societal rules that governed their world. From that day, the child was stripped of the vibrant colors of childhood. She was given a plain white saree and taught the rituals of austerity and devotion.

Yet, despite the cruelty of her circumstances, the girl’s spirit remained unbroken. In her small heart, she held onto the hope that one day she would find a place where she was loved and valued for who she was, not for the labels imposed upon her. The monastery became her world, and as she grew, she found solace in her prayers, her heart seeking refuge in the divine.

Unbeknownst to her, the winds of change were stirring. Her story, a silent cry against the injustices she endured, would one day inspire others to question and challenge the oppressive customs that bound her.

An empty soul, a silent land,
Life slips through like grains of sand.

Then he arrives, a storm untamed,
And fills my world, my heart reclaimed.

~~~Rithi