I arrived in my striped shirt and blue shorts
As I was greeted by a wretch standing six foot Tall
India was in glee, I wasn't, I was six years old
My day began, in the August company of pain
I had three chowkidars, who kept me in line
One who was the literal father of it all
The other a victim, who could gift me torments
I often would go to bed, pray for death to a still god
Who's pictures lit up every evening, when my little hands lit the lamp
It would be right then, when I would pray the hardest
Of wanting to have my breath taken away, yet no God answered
I was told comfort lies in a mother's embrace
I was told a sibling would love me more than I know
Yet these wer just stories, I had come to believe
My mother was busy, too busy to hear my painful screams
My father was celebrating his numerous victories
and one of tormenting my mother, making her soul reek
I have at a few times brought him his alcohol
I will tell you now one thing, I find his face often in my glass
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