The windy evening. As I boarded down the bus, I saw
the deserted street.
It’s going to rain.
And I had that spring in my walk, for I have always
loved rain. That smell, when the rain drops fall on the dry soil-that intoxicates me, that ecstasies me.
The wind in my hair, the lone street, the occasional
vehicles, the tea shop, and few urchins.
Life never felt better.
And then it happened- few hands on my dupatta, their
animal lust, their groins, claws, teeth and..
When I woke up on the hospital bed, a few things
have already taken place- a few candle marches, some fictional description of ‘My
Rape’ in the newspapers, some ministers have cleanly connected my incident to
the ‘sympathy quota’ of their election promotions, and a birth of another ‘Rape Victim’
.
.
.
Months have passed. The Indian Judiciary still call
dates in the court. The media still asks me to give the description of my
incident. DESCRIBE. ELABORATE. IN
DETAIL. My family still seeks justice. Some students still arrange candle
march. The political parties perfectly transfers the blame to each other. The RAPISTS laugh away.
And, I sit here, scared, afraid and tired of waking
up every morning, being raped infinitely by the asking eyes and piercing
questions of the Society.
