Pens and Pages

A tribute to the Nirbhayas of this world, to those who did not get justice, to Jyoti #IndiaFailsNirbhaya 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 t...

First published on Springtide on 12th December 2014 Perhaps it is not the right time to share what I faced in Delhi, not after “the Uber incident”. But then, there’s never a right time. And no matter what hour it is, reality is always the invincible truth. I’ve been staying in Mumbai from the past one year. I’ve been to Delhi before, but from Mumbai my first visit would be only last week. It was at around 4:45pm when I took a train from INA metro station to Kashmere Gate. I had to transport my luggage from my friend’s place at Yamuna Vihar to another friend’s place at Katwaria Sarai. It was my first evening there in Delhi and I did a quick imprecise calculation and assumed that I’d reach Katwaria Sarai after picking my luggage, at around 7:00pm. I assumed that dusk would fall at around 7:00pm like it is the case in Mumbai. I was a little disappointed to realize that by the time I reached Kashmere Gate it was almost dark although it was only around 5:30pm. ...

When I packed my bags to shift to Hyderabad for my job, I was eager to meet new people and gain new experiences since it was the first time I was moving out of my home-town, Guwahati. I, indeed, met some really great personalities, made some great friends; I learned about their hardships and I told them mine. But in the short period of time that I was there, I failed to make friends with a few; one of them is Nirbhaya [ name changed ]. As soon as I reached Hyderabad, I rummaged for a PG near my office. I found a two-seater room, adjacent to two other rooms where four more girls stayed. The next day I checked out from the Hotel I stayed the previous night, to begin my stay in the PG. In my hurried search for a PG, I failed to notice the fact that the road that led to the PG I selected is always dark and deserted and hence, unsafe. I decided to move out the succeeding month itself. Those were the days when our training at office had just begun and we, the freshers, were...

It was either for the scorching sunrise that hurt her eyes or the cold breeze that blew scratching the fresh wounds on her arms, but Disha could tell that her friend had tears in her eyes for some reason or the other. “Nothing,” Razia said, when confronted by Disha, hiding her eyes as she wiped her tears with her hands. “Got paid?” Disha enquired. “Yes.” Lied Razia while walking towards the place she has been calling home from the past couple of years. She headed for the bathroom as she entered her room where two girls were sitting, one smoking a cigarette while the other wearing make-up in front of the broken mirror in the room. Razia cleaned her skirt that was smeared with her blood. She wasn’t prepared for it. After all it was that 14- year old’s first time. Not the first time that she had been “ridden” by men, nor the first time that she bled while bearing the intolerable pain the men gave her, but for the first time that she painlessly bled indicating a cycle o...