They are the same.

~This is for a section of society who are nothing less than warriors, brutally facing all battles with ease.~

Looked down upon,
Frowned upon,
Twisted tales of tradition, culture and more.
Forced.
Beaten.
Tortured.
All for something they had no control.

They walk with pride,
In bright coloured saris,
Orange, purple, pink or so
The sweet murmur of the bangles is what they like,
A perfect sized bindi,
The perfect shade for the lips,
And the rest of the jewellery that beautifies the rest of them too.

And a unique way God moulded their sinew and bones,
A different voice is what they have,
Different in the way they look.

But the same heart that delves within.
The winter chills that scares you,
The same air works on their body too.
The summer sun that makes you sweat,
The sweltering condition they face is due to the same heat.

The death that makes you cringe,
The life that brings joy to you,
Is the same,
The very same,
Even for the souls who don’t fit in according to you.

The way they walk on paths,
Because of the adversities created by you and me,
Giving blessings,
Showering the love,
That wide smile that takes the position of a veil,
Concealing the pain of the eye.
And the clanging of the coins,
Is what brings them little happiness,
If not bliss.

The dismal behaviour,
The brutal and searing pain they take,
The fervent abuse,
On the skin, the soul and the mind or more that breaks
The rods against the flesh
But the torrid antipathy towards the soul, the very being
All for something they did not themselves create.

The tears that you and I shed,
The same salinity is what makes their too.
The prejudice.
The abysmal treatment.
Should burn in a pyre of injustice, hatred and the scalding views we hold so true
And die…
Die till the little bright embers of the remains,
Let out the smoke they have,
Like the last breath out of a being.