The Rape
A blotch of blood her skirt it mire,
Sordid bile, overflowed desire,
“Wretch!” He scratched on her face,
Maimed, she suffered her ‘fallen grace’.
Not covered a veil her naked skin,
Marred, razed for a passion grim,
Drawn, torn, forever forlorn,
Shrieked not the scars but the pain within.
From the darkness onto the street she stumbled,
The eyes they stripped, the lips they mumbled,
In the holds of their leisurely shire they spoke
How she was burnt in her own fire.
The insolence they repeated in broad day light,
Men, women and children alike,
Till none was left of her vital signs,
That night the village on her flesh it dined.
I wrote this poem long ago when the Nirbhaya case came to light. A good friend (whose counsel I trust very much) had said upon reading the poem that I should try to keep to my experience. I took his advice and decided against publishing it.
However, several years have passed and my feelings don’t seem to change very much and neither has the world. Time and again, the same horrific pictures come to light and it has become difficult to contain my feelings.
It is perhaps true that it still captures a skewed picture. On the other hand, I am a particular viewer and it is a very particular view that I see. Do pardon me if it strikes you as naive, inexperienced or inappropriate.
To Write 