Wrapped in Silk

She arrives wrapped in silk,
sealed with spit,
a ‘fragile’ stamp pressed
against her skin.
A girl folded until
her knees
click shut.
Her spine trained
to bow.
Addressed in red ink:
to whom it may concern, handle with care.

They check the seal before sending her off.
Fingertips glide over,
searching for rebellion,
a breath out of place,
for cracks,
for evidence.
Her ‘purity’ tested
like glass tapped for fractures,
like fruit pressed to see if it bruises.

The men lift her-
weigh her with glances,
shake her once to hear
if anything rattles.

Steam curls from chipped cups of chai.
Men sip,
bargain in teaspoons-
two saris less, three bangles more, perhaps a fridge.
Her worth measured between cardamom and sugar.

Gold slides across the table-
not coins, but teeth,
not teeth, but time
chewed down to the root-
the molars of mothers,
ground by years,
biting back with every bargain.

They call it tradition, duty.
Sometimes, even love.
But it is inheritance:
The erosion of women
pressed and passed hand to hand
like heirlooms made of hunger.

A man waits in the corner,
stuffed with promises
that smell of camphor
and fear.

And the night,
the night is not a veil
but a ledger,
tallied by hands

Hands
too small to hold worth,
as a toddler’s,
reaching,
with a grip enough to choke-

Hands
that do not know how to hold without owning
and own without breaking.
The cry of greed disguised as ‘a right’ rises
that drowns out the quiet of what’s already broken.

For they are only raised this way,
with no calluses,
as fathers oblige, handing the toy,
reprimanding mothers for reprimanding.

The receipt is signed
with the groom’s smile.
The warranty expires
at first blood.