Discrimination—
It didn’t begin with Varna, nor with apartheid's chains,
But within the four walls, where love should reign.
Not in the laws, or ancient scrolls,
But in whispered tones, in measured roles.

At home, it begins—subtle, sharp, and sly,
When praise is uneven, and questions fly:
"Why aren’t you fair like her?" "Why don’t you grow tall?"
As if worth is measured by looks, that’s all.

It hides behind laughter, yet cuts like a sword,
When money decides if you're cherished or ignored.
When beauty’s a ticket, and silence is gold,
And kindness is punished, while pride is bold.

We talk of religion, region, caste and creed,
Of outer divides that the papers read.
Yes, they are real, and rightly fought,
But what of the wars at home, left to rot?

What of the brother who’s called "lesser than"?
The sister mocked for not fitting their plan?
What of the friend who never speaks out,
Because love was withheld, replaced with doubt?

The world fights battles the eye can see,
But the heart bleeds in secrecy.
For no law can change a mother’s choice,
Or the unkind edge in a father’s voice.

And those who suffer, suffer alone,
With pain too quiet to be known.
No marches held, no banners flown—
Just broken spirits, fully grown.

So before we chase the global wrongs,
Let’s listen to our own home's songs.
For the worst kind of hate is the one unspoken,
And the deepest wounds are the ones left open.

"Home is where love should begin, not comparison"