I was born on the bottom.
Grandpa was solemn.
Mamma didn’t agree,
But Papa decided to flee.
There was the Brahmin,
With their high-held chin.
There were the warriors, merchants,
Laborers, farmers, all in their turn of events.
I can’t look at them,
Their high flower doesn’t grow from my stem.
This applies even to my face and my shadow,
Neither of them I must show.
We get low pay,
We suffer day by day.
Our jobs are the worst,
Sometimes I believe that we are cursed.
There is no changing the past,
No rearranging the caste.
We are Hindu,
We are some of the few
That are untouchable.
We’re under social control.