By Geetika Arora
Finally, after so many fights,
My mother decided to show me the light.
She was ready to bring that fetus to life,
But I wish she knew then the struggles faced by every Indian wife.
I was born, and as I looked around,
I saw how pathetic the world could be — profound.
My grandma treated my mother like a toy,
All because she didn’t deliver a boy.
Feeding me half milk, half water,
Maa stayed strong, not letting the pain alter.
Grandma never held me in her arms,
Always blaming, always raising false alarms.
She insisted Dad throw Maa away,
Saying he should find another woman and lay.
But Dad loved his toddler all the same,
And with that love, he started raising his daughter’s name.
“You can’t go to school,” Grandma said,
“Girls are meant to be housemaids instead.”
But Maa saw her own story repeating
And vowed to send me to school, no matter the beating.
I scored well in class,
But the hatred in her eyes was as clear as glass.
I started riding the bus to school each day,
Unaware of the horrors coming my way.
The conductor showed me to my seat,
But his hands wandered—my thighs, arms, and cheeks.
His intentions, I couldn’t quite get,
But his touch made my little heart fret.
I was just four years old,
Too young to understand the lies I’d been sold.
Then my uncle came to visit my father,
But he turned out to be a pedophile—this was another.
Pretending to help, he bathed me,
But his touch—oh, how I loathed thee.
I turned ten, with many friends,
Mostly boys, yet innocence was on the mend.
Then came society’s slap in my face:
“You must follow the rules of this place.
You’re a girl—you can’t play football.
Stay home, learn to cook, clean the hall.”
“You can’t ride to school on a boy’s bike,
Even if you have to walk for miles and hike.
Roaming with boys is considered wrong,
Or society will sing its dirty song.”
So, I walked to school with a heavy bag,
Unaware of the incident that would cause me to lag.
My innocent bud was just beginning to bloom,
When a man’s filthy words filled the room.
Saying things I didn’t understand,
While exposing himself with his hands.
I cried, running as fast as I could,
Feeling like prey in the tiger’s wood.
I was saved from being hunted down,
But I wanted to scream—I wanted to growl.
Physically, I hadn’t been raped,
But my mind was forever shaped.
I grew, trying to forget these things,
As my little bud entered its teens.
Red stained my bed, red stained my legs,
Another layer of pain to be pegged.
Bear the pain every month for a week,
Constantly bleeding, feeling weak.
“You can’t touch the temple or use the same room,
Because you’re impure—sit in the corner and gloom.”
Is it my fault I’m a girl?
Do these menses make society whirl?
God made me as I am today,
Yet, you say I can’t pray?
Life continued to hand me more,
For I am the girl every predator adores.
An electrician came to fix the house,
But he planned to catch this little mouse.
He grabbed my hand and seized my arm,
This time, I screamed and raised the alarm.
My father came and rescued me;
The man was thrown out, but still, he felt glee.
No police—“What would people say?”
And so we chose silence, letting shame have its way.
On my way to tuitions, riding my wheels,
Boys began to follow, like rolling reels.
My brother slapped me when I paid them heed,
“Why do you go to tuitions? What’s the need?”
“Wear proper clothes—cover your arms, cover your thighs.”
Why? Because boys can’t control their eyes.
I went to college and made new friends,
But trust was fragile, bending with the trends.
“She’s friends with boys—oh my my,
She must be a slut; we won’t deny.”
When a boy befriends girls, he’s macho, it seems,
But when I do it, my character’s torn at the seams.
Call her parents—she was caught with three guys!
“She’s a girl; she should be shy.”
Oh, what a great boy—he’s with three girls!
But even if he rapes, the truth never unfurls.
This male-dominated society got under my skin,
And then came talk of marriage—where to begin?
Marry a boy of your parents’ choice?
Could it get worse, without a voice?
Marry a man you don’t even know,
And you cannot rebel, cannot put on a show.
“You were taught and sent to school—
Now it’s time to pay your debt pool.”
I’m twenty, and he’s thirty-five,
“Marry him—he’ll keep you happy for life.”
So, unwillingly, I marry a man twice my age,
And on the first night, he lets out his rage.
“Where’s the dowry you were meant to bring?”
He yells, beats me, and makes me his thing.
He’s my husband, so I must obey,
Even if he forces me to lay.
Being raped daily, but I can’t complain—
“You’re a girl—you must endure this lane.”
His sperm meets my egg, in this tragic show,
But he only cares if it’s a boy, you know.
The cycle repeats—there’s no end.
There’s only one way for things to mend:
Change the way you think;
That’s the only link.
Respect the woman who brought you to this place—
Without her, you wouldn’t see this space.
Stop raping with your words or your acts;
Think of your sister and mother before you react.
Passing comments or eyeing a bra strap—
No medal awaits you for this trap.
Don’t rape me with your eyes,
Don’t rape me with your words.
Every day, I’m raped by echoes I’ve heard.
The comments you pass torment my mind,
You run into me, touch me from behind.
For you, it’s fun—you enjoy the ride,
But I bathe for hours, and cry inside.
How do I clean my soul, I wonder,
As your disgusting actions tear me asunder?
She wears short clothes because she likes,
Stop trying to take away her rights.
Not once, you say, was she raped,
But a thousand times, her soul was scraped.
Let her live in peace—free of trouble.
Help her burst this unbearable bubble.