For the first fourteen years of her life, Bhumi Madiga had accepted the constant whiffs of animal hide, neem extractions and most importantly, the regular reminders of society’s contempt for her as deserved. Being born into the Madiga caste of the Vijayanagara dynasty, simply existing placed Bhumi on the lower end of the societal scale that had been set in place for hundreds of years. This system was known as the oppressive caste system, a hierarchy that placed individuals into certain societal groups based on their surnames and lineage. Their castes dictated their role in society, including what they did for a living and who they were permitted to interact with. Unfortunately for Bhumi, this detrimental ideology wasn’t new to her. In fact, her family had been thrown into this structural predicament for generations, beginning with the Chola dynasty.
   Unlike other girls her age, Bhumi never woke up with anticipation or exhilaration for the course of her day. Society had broken her childhood joy into slices of coconut for the upper-castes to devour, and attending the public for work meant that the dirt under her fingernails would deem her worthy of exploitation and abuse from the castes who had leisure. She had to work for the castes who didn’t have to get dirty, who could sit in a temple and worship and be lauded for their devotion. Sometimes, Bhumi wished that she could pray in public, or at a very minimum, be acknowledged for her devotion to skinning animals and making leather for those above her to relish.  
   Although, somewhere beneath the surrender that encompassed Bhumi’s fragile frame was a sense of hope and revived faith in life, the manifestations of an ardent desire to change her situation. 
   Belonging to a low caste, the practical application of Hinduism in everyday life under the Vijayanagara dynasty meant that Bhumi was disentitled to the privileges higher castes, such as the religious Brahmin priests enjoyed. She and her family had to do the jobs that no one else would, including leatherwork through which they handled animal skins, when their religion of Hinduism strictly advocated for vegetarianism. She was deemed an untouchable, and many outsiders would shake at the thought of associating with her. But despite the scorn Bhumi experienced face-front every day, she always introduced herself as a religious Hindu, valuing the many gods and polytheistic nature that the religion entailed.
   Her faith in the fact that every Hindu was entitled to ritual was a quiet rebellion to the societal expectations at the time. In fact, being public about these ambitions would have made Bhumi appear impudent. Little did she know that fate would soon convert her hopes into a reality.
   Bhumi was taking her regular commute to her family’s leather workshop, getting there by foot at the mercy of her anguished soles. The heat of the day trickled beyond a sense of feeling and lionized hydration to Bhumi. 
   On her way to the most proximal water fountain, Bhumi passed by a prayer recital. Trained by the eager urge of high caste members to exclude untouchables, Bhumi took a step back. 
   But this time, rather than her presence, her hesitation to not join the session was not welcome.
   “This isn’t a standard worship session, dear. We aren’t the Hindus around your area,” the charismatic leader, a woman, replied.
   Taken aback, Bhumi took one step forward. “Then what are you, miss?”
   “This is a worship session grounded on the ideals of Bhakti movement. We don’t discriminate against caste nor gender. Care to join us?” the preacher responded.
   It was this moment that transfigured the injustices of the first fourteen years of Bhumi’s life as a part of her past. The group in front of her was atypical to standard Hindu recitations of the time, it had included men and women, members of all castes, and barefoot people like her too. She had to know more about what this practice was all about.
   “What is the Bhakti movement, ma’am?” Bhumi inquired.
   “Well, it's almost a mission. A mission of spreading worship to all members of our society. So that everyone can benefit from our gods. It’s actually from here in South India, my master is from Tamil Nadu,” the preacher explained.
   “Then are your teachings novel?” Bhumi questioned.
   “We think that rather than studying text, it is crucial to incorporate the philosophies of these texts into our emotions and our spiritual lives. We should be aligned and attached to a deity. We should love a deity. Love one as Krishna loved Radha. And everyone can love, not just the higher castes, the men or the wealthy,” the master elucidated. 
   “This is an upcoming movement and it can change everything for us untouchables. We’ve spread even to Delhi,”
   “Delhi, under the sultanate? Isn’t there Islamic rule in Delhi?” Bhumi asked, confused yet intrigued. 
   “Well, yes. The Rajput kingdoms or smaller states in the north were in a dissonant position, always conflicting with one another so the Mughals easily took over that weak region. People say these Mughals arose from the Mongols. They kind of have a similar ring to them. They’ve invaded up north in Sindh and the Indus River Valley too. They have brought their faith with them as well, and many of my untouchable peers had converted to Islam to escape the caste system. So did Buddhists who wanted to escape the corruption of monks. After the Bhakti movement was founded, many joined our purpose as well,”
   “I thought there would be some sort of religious clash, I thought everyone was Muslim in Delhi!” Bhumi exclaimed. 
   “Then you thought wrong. It isn’t kind to make assumptions like that. Yes, at first there was some chaos in Delhi. I’ve heard about some temples and Buddhist temples being destroyed and mosques being built in their place. But the Muslims are like us too. There is a similar mystical group known as Sufis who, quite similar to Bhakti saints, prioritize connection to God over rituals and standard practices,”
   “But they have one God, don’t they?”
“One god. Yes. But they share the same idea. Sure, we have many gods. But the point is to have a relationship with our gods over being routine in ritual, correct?”
Bhumi’s breathing fluttered. For once, who she was to God was not determined by the lineage she was born into. She couldn’t wait to heal, to revive, to rejuvenate after years of hate. After years of wishing to be better. To be born better. Something she had zero control over.
She would listen to the recitation and truly feel one with her deity. That night, she dreamed not of stitching leather but of stitching lyrics into her heart. For once, like other girls, she would wake up with anticipation, a sense of exhilaration, for the course of her day.