Dare they come out and we will name them – blame them – shame them.
We will ask them to move on with life because we know how to tame them.
There is no point blowing it out of proportion, we’ll explain.
And that time will heal and slowly they’ll forget the pain.
Because this single incident wouldn’t really be her only scar,
She will be tried and tested, she would never really know when they’ve gone too far.
Someone would casually brush against her while walking on the road,
She would want to retaliate but then would hesitate, “my fault, wrong dress code.”
Dressed in a kurti the next day it happened again, “this one won’t get away easy,”
She turns around and he says, “galti se hogaya, sorry didi.”
And while she replays the situation in her head a million times,
The conclusion is it happens every second day, it’s fine.
She doesn’t want to be called the victim but that’s what she becomes,
She gives into this ‘way of life’ and the disgust painfully numbs.
1st your friends call her bhabi, you stalk her, get her drunk and take her home,
And then live to tell the tale of what wasn’t a night in Rome.
You will ‘rate’ her attributes – the size, the colour and even the elasticity.
And how you shut that mouth of her’s that she thought was witty.
Behind closed doors, you talk about her and objectify.
And tell your friends, “theek tha, maza nahi aaya bhai.”
The group then calls her a whore because she wasn’t good enough for your bed,
The story is then passed around and made a viral thread.
She will live her life with this regret,
And then remember she was once told, slowly she’ll forget.
She continues to believe that the assault was her fault and the rape, her fate.
Because ‘justice delayed is justice denied’ was unknown in her state.
It was all him, she never even gave her consent,
Then why is it that she is the one living with this resent.
Why does everybody else think, even her face tells she is asking for more,
While she burdens herself thinking how you became the hero and her, the whore.