They want their women as goddesses, demure, soft and play-doh like, cold, with all their fire extinguished, on an altar, where they can see what’s between their legs and rape them behind closed doors, inside temple walls, all the while calling them goddesses and queens and whatnot.

“Kshitija  is the place where the sky and sea meet” he said, nodding to himself as he wiped his hands on dirty trousers, not looking at me. “Horizon”, I whispered weaving my fingers into my hair and not being able to take my eyes off his. Shrugging, he countered, “Means the same, but mine’s more poetic.” I was only ten but I knew I had fallen in love with a nameless boy I met at the railroads every day.