Is it you? Mahisasura?
I remember beheading you.
Imagine! A one-headed demon,
The black one.
Your arrogance made me blood-thirsty.
You dared to desire… to be like us.
Where was your Shakti?
The Shakti of the millions who prayed even before we or they came.
Sometimes I think, maybe, it would have been better if you lived, like fellow comrades, in the service of humankind.
The folklore would be something else then.
But you do live.
But look at me.
Where is my shakti? Where are those who pray in my temples?
Here are those daughters of mine, who were slaughtered, raped, killed in the womb.
Here are those daughters, who live in fear. Here are those daughters who live in shame.
Here are those daughters, who seek to liberate themselves and have a dream of finding for themselves, who they really will be if they were not in my image or the other one.
Neither the Goddess nor the Whore.
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