There was a father. Who had seen a dream. A dream for his daughter. A dream he could not fulfill. ‘cuz of the knighted society He used to live in.
But he had vowed for his daughter The she wouldn’t meet, the same fate as him. She wouldn’t be offered to society, Placed on a platter.
He taught her well. He had to work, yes, harder He sold his land and left The knighted village sands.
But he taught her well. Taught her how to read and write. How dream and how to fight. Success she achieved Brought tears to his eyes. Cuz his dreams had found light She begun working As a physiotherapist in city. He could not begin to describe How swelled he was, in pride.
But society couldn’t bear that! As such, his happiness was cursed. He received a news. On a fine happy morning. His daughter had been *****. By a group of six His heart died that day. A hole left in its place.
Such horrendous was that crime That my pen stops after every line But someone has to write Someone has to fight
According to reports They had been brutal Her urogenitals destroyed Cuz a rod, wheel jack at that Had been inserted in her womb A place for the birth of life. And when they pulled it out. Her intestines pulled along.
“Something like a rope came out” The monsters later described. What were they thinking? What was running through their minds? Did they not look into her eyes? Or they did. These sick animals If they did! How could they do it? I often claim being unemotional. Yet I find myself sweeping my eyes.
But these are not tears of sympathy Or sorrow and sadness These are tears of anger These are tears of helplessness It makes me want to ask Forgiveness of her. Cuz’ I couldn’t save her.
We lived cities apart. We did not know each other. But I am responsible Responsible for her. For what she went through I know this doesn’t count But I am really sorry.
A father died that day. Man died that day. Mankind died that day I died that day.
She was strong though. She was a fighter She had tried to fight them too. But they were six. Vile ruthless criminals She lost not cuz’ they were men They were not She lost cuz’ they were monsters. But Nirbhaya survived. For two weeks, death she defied. Fought till her last breadth For she had an example to set A broken father had to be met. Organs failed her and she lost her breath.
Its been eight years now. But if you still look into his eyes You will find hollowness. You will find horrors of the incident afresh He has seen a dream A dream for his daughter Something for which he cursed himself now Wishing he hadn’t We destroyed a father’s belief Yes WE are the ones responsible Cuz’ we don’t fight. Choose to enjoy our own comfortable lives.
Its funny she got only two weeks to live And the monsters got years, that too eight Until they were hanged But. Did She get justice? I think not. Not until this stops. And it has to. For each life marred. Our already bloodied Hands are scarred.
Your eyes fall so naturally over the body of every girl that walks by, And they avoid me like I am diseased meat. Men are wolves and when tamed, they're dogs. But dogs still eat meat, And she is quiet the piece.
This is not a reflection of my emotions towards all men. Just a demonstration of **** culture.
It is a murky unsympathetic night; the air is dense but so brittle. The city’s lights are glaring while the buildings are pellucid. The clubs are radiating with pandemonium most can’t seem to ignore. It’s a Friday night, a chaotic age restricted night. Both predators and prey invade the avenue. Walking through is Jane Doe. Tall slim and slightly inebriated. Attached to her skin are stitched together materials snug, satisfying but fleeting. As she prowls, the materials bind and elevate revealing her dermis. Beyond the noise, she hears phrases towards her, rotating her abdomen as she becomes livid but intimidated. Jane accelerates but the stilettos restrict. As she walks faster so does the brute, until finally their paths collide. Jane meets his cold malicious iris. Before altering directions, his callous filled hands swiftly but suddenly snatched her confidence and depth. Her figure jolts as he infiltrates her physique. Others observed nonchalantly and attentively whispering “she has received the appropriate consequences” based on the apparel draped over her figure.
It's difficult to be pretty in this world Because when you're pretty You get ***** Because men don't know how to control themselves Because when you're a man You don't have to Men are commended For impregnating women And being masculine rapists Women are shamed For getting pregnant And being ***** Women were asking for it Women should have known better Women are supposed to be prepared Nobody tells men not to **** We hope it's common sense But then we don't reprimand them Because boys will be boys But why can't boys be nice boys And keep their hands to themselves Stop hurting young women Who really don't want to be ***** I don't know why Men keep ****** women It isn't fun Nobody is asking for it The definition of **** Is *** that isn't asked for But guys do it anyway Because women are too afraid To speak up To live in this world Ruled by ****** men
A girl lies naked, bruised and bleeding on the bathroom floor. She’ll say she was ***** but it’ll be her who’ll take the fall. The football team will still play that Friday night and she’ll be accused of telling hysterical lies. “She was breaking the dress code” you were breaking the law, violation of the law gets you a court sentence but rich parents get you good lawyers who get you off free, she’ll never be free to walk the streets home alone fearing that every time she looks into a man’s eyes she will see the image of you as she prayed for help but was instead preyed on by the Prom King Predator.
Her bruises whether they be physical or not are hers to reveal and if you feel the need to go around telling her story then you’re an ***, “she had a sweet ***” you had sweet talk which made her feel safe and then suddenly she felt betrayed. So she’s a ***** if she sleeps with a guy even if it wasn’t consensual but when you sleep with a girl you’re a playa and did a good job on hitting that; you going to bang her? ***** her? Nail her?
The words used to describe it are almost as violent as the act done upon her.
There was pain in her voice but her body betrayed her, it portrayed pleasure when all she felt was agony. The pain in her voice was clear to those around her but the pleasure was all they focused on, the pleasure is what caused her the feeling of being ashamed for the next four years until she could open up to someone.
Around school she was known as the quiet girl, the girl without a story, this was true in a sense because her story like most was never told.