A tribute to the Nirbhayas of this world, to those who did not get justice, to Jyoti
They were my sisters-
Those two poor daughters of an Indian village,
Clad in what they call decent clothing for women,
Found one morbid morning,
Dead and hanging from the branches of the tree,
The same tree around which you and I had played once.
Yesterday I saw my mother, with tears in her eyes,
When she said she saw no hope
Of justice in this nation where once I lived.
“Avenge my death,” I had once said to my friends,
To the people who once loved me;
Maybe they still do
And fate must have silenced them.
Maybe the sticks they were beaten with
While protesting against what was wrong,
Have put lashes on their hearts, and locks on their mouths.
The same juvenile lad who had once
Watched me writhing in pain,
Probably, with a smile on his face, as I moaned,
I heard he is now going to start working soon.
And have a “career”, I heard them telling him.
He who then used that deadly rod
Is now going to use needles and scissors, they say.
Strange is fate that it gives second chances.
I, however, was destined to die.
A “career” I too had dreamt of -
A dream that ended with my life.
Tomorrow, who knows, the tailor boy
May stitch and earn,
Or he might get a “second chance”
To rape, kill and burn.
But the dead will stay dead, buried and quiet,
My sisters – they will wriggle in pain and cry.
It’s not about one boy or one death,
It’s about a thousand crimes and only a hundred reported.
Tomorrow, when young children would walk the streets with heads held high,
Who’d save their dreams, when the rapists would, this way, thrive?