Once, a woman was born into the endless cycle of Samsara—life after life shaped by karma. In this life, she came as herself: a woman in a world that honored cows as sacred but silenced its daughters.

She stood still, in the pose of Nataraj—the cosmic dancer of destruction and rebirth. In her hands, she held a frame with her own head, a sign that she saw herself clearly, despite everything. Resting on her shoulders was the head of a cow, worshipped as Gau Mata. It was a quiet irony—how easily reverence skipped over women and landed on beasts.

Her crown held many eyes—society always watching. From it hung a piece of underwear, heavy with shame she never chose. But still, she stood tall.

Flowers bloomed across her body. Symbols of strength, growth, and quiet defiance.

She was not broken.

She was becoming.

A question carved in form:

Why must divinity skip over the living to land on the lifeless?

She is sacred—but not in your stories. In her own.