The Incense and the Silent Girl

In the far edge of a fading village lane,

She sits — a shadow wrapped in jasmine rain.

Her faded half-sari, thin with stories of want,

Fingers blackened by charcoal and clay,

Rolling dreams into sandalwood dust every day.

She doesn’t speak —

Not because she has no words,

But because the world rarely listens

To the hush between women and work.

The fire she shapes is soft and slow,

A sacred curl, a silent glow.

Each thread of smoke, like rising guggul, a prayer unsaid,

Each ash that falls — a hope that bled.

Her mother once sang in sandalwood-laced air,

Now silence hums through her tangled hair.

Like the fragrance of sandalwood, her life lacked scent,

A girl raised not with lullabies,

But the burn of incense and sacrifice.

She ties the threads, dips them in dusk,

With earthy vetiver, her essence finds its ground.

Not for temples or divine delight —

But to keep her home warm through the night.

They call her mute.

They forget — silence is not absence.

It’s a language, slow and steady,

Like a river's deep current, strong beneath the stream.

She doesn’t cry. She burns —

Like the embers of a dying fire, holding heat within.

Leaving scent long after she's gone —

A girl of ash, and gold.