Her demise shook the world
And left an uprising in its wake.
She was human but the world
Obnoxiously called her a Dalit. Her
Skin was marred with scars of
The most gruesome kind but
Little do you know, they were
Her battle scars that she took
To the grave. Her body, a
Holy shrine was entered without
An invitation but you are not
Aware that her soul is purer
Than yours will ever be.
Her cache of memories will
Be drenched with flashes of
Hungry stares and lustful eyes
But also warm hugs and gentle
Smiles from her parents.
Something that the
Scrupulous media does not want
To reflect upon. She can’t be
A secret anymore; her caste
Cannot be a hindrance anymore.
She needs a powerful voice
And we must give her one.
As i recount this tale,
I am suddenly this girl. I
Consume her desires. I
Am her soul and spirit. And,
My fingers close in on against
Each other and I take labouring
Breaths. My throat feels like
Huge amounts of sandpaper were
Shoved into it. My eyes are watery
And blood shot and all you do is
Stare. My clothes are shredded
And little rags are my only trustful
Companions on my otherwise
Naked body. A string of wounds
Cover my arms and legs and you
Whisper about how sordid a
Scene this is. You mutter about
Me being a victim but the truth is
I am a warrior who survived an
Intrusion that was not supposed
To happen and yet, you back off
From a growing crowd and wonder
What you’ll have for dinner tonight,
Leaving me there on the ground,
Writhing in more than pain and suffering.