Oppressed and unwanted. Born from a prostitute, often segregated, unable to even reach a minuscule of resources afforded by those who were born in better environments or families. Stuck with unwanted jobs and prospects in a society that perceives you as lower than dirt—avoided like the plague.
That is my normal life—thankfully, I have not stooped so low into prostitution—though I don’t fault many of my peers for falling into that kind of work. I myself won’t fall to that—seeing my mother suffer that sort of abuse is enough for me to never enter into that occupation, plus the promise she made me swear on her deathbed to never even think of it, even if I starve to death. Her wanting me to even have a sense of dignity she couldn’t even afford to have—forced by her family to even enter into this kind of work.
The only jobs I can get are in waste management, labor, and leather work. Although not paid with money, I could still gain food—sustenance. My family lives in the outskirts of settlements, where we could live.
My family is a mishmash of orphaned children who came from the prostitutes in the biggest brothel nearby. Our mothers were friends—peers in the same rank, forced by their own families, unable to even feed another. We were thrown out of the brothel after our mothers died from some disease you can easily get from a brothel—after all, they were prostitutes.
“Kali!”
I turned around, shaking off my daydreaming, and replied back to my didi—older sister.
“Didi?”
“It’s time for dinner!”
I hurried back and greeted my younger siblings, coming back from their work.
“Nirmala—Usha, how was the job?”
“Disgusting as always.”
Usha replied while setting up the food. I looked around the room and went to get the youngest—Tara.
We usually worked at tanneries where the smell always sticks, unable to be removed even after multiple washes. I picked up Tara running away from me and sat her on the floor. Although used to the smell, she can still smell a faint whiff of rot off of us. Her cute little face puffing, holding her breath from the smell, taking a while to get used to us. Nirmala poked her nose and sat down, waiting for our didi to sit down. Didi sat down and we started to eat. After most of us finished eating, I spoke: “I am willing to be the sacrifice.” A loud silence engulfed the room.
Didi looked at me, appalled, but yielded her expression. She was lighter than most of us siblings, one of the core features that made her beautiful in our society. I couldn’t look her in the eyes, knowing full well her face would be marred with disappointment and wrinkles that formed after tireless work at the tannery—where our wages are mostly food, unable to even obtain a sliver of money.
“I know what I am doing.”
I said in a low voice, unable to look at my other sisters in the eye—looking down at the empty leaf on the floor. The event was approaching in eight months or so. I knew my life would be cheap compared to the survival of these people I call family. “Enough. We will ignore what you just said.” I hear my sister stand up and pick up Tara and go to her side of the room, unable to even look at me further.
I already made up my mind—I couldn’t let my siblings keep on living—especially Usha—I knew it was only a matter of time before she would grow to marriageable age. Too many people look at our family with perverse gazes. The only reason we haven’t been tainted—I take care of it—after all, “what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
It was a particularly silent night when I left—manipulating Didi’s mana to make her fall asleep was particularly easy—after all, I’ve done it before. I saw Nirmala waiting for me outside—she understood; after all, she allowed it.
“Make sure to talk about us, emphasize us—after all, this event is widely publicized. Make sure to turn on the waterworks.” She paused. “Didi, thank you, and sorry.” Tears slowly fell on her cheeks—she held me and bawled like an animal came from inside her. She let go, and I left.
“Surnamed Chavan, named Kali, are you willing to represent our country?” the man asked—demanded—after all, it was rare to have a chosen. The official asked, his eyes twinkling. “I do,” I replied. The journey was such a haze. Although it took weeks to walk on foot, the fatigue didn’t really matter.
When I entered the government building, the glares that were directed at me were almost comical when they immediately changed to ones of fear. After all, we chosen are gods in the eyes of many.
