Yamini Parashar is pursuing her BA from Delhi university. She likes to write poems and observe things and is concerned with social issues. She identifies herself as a feminist and sees herself as a clinical psychologist in a few years. She’s been a part of a few poetry programmes held in her city.
They say I’m lucky that I am fine, That I didn’t get any deep injuries but What about the injuries that tear me down deep within? I sing many jingles to keep me going “It was not your fault… it was not your fault…” But everywhere I go, everyone I meet Catcalling on the running street Touching my ass in the rush of the metro The stare of those eyes rips my heart apart
8, I was when it first happened But they say I’m lucky That it was not much Sexual assault is what it’s called But they say walking in the moonlight might provoke people “Don’t go out at night. People may character shame you. Girls from good families do not roam at night.” So, I chose daylight but then they objectified me. Not even the girl in the little frock was spared she has more scars than her age Not even aware what sexuality is She is cursed in the name of ‘honor’
Then their next predator was the women in their house Uncle touched my niece when no one was at home He bathed with her touching with his dirty hands Then they say, “You must not have worn appropriate clothes.” But wait! What what about their appropriateness? The grudges and disgust that you have toward me If you directed them toward the rapist the world could be a better place. But they say I’m lucky That my scars aren’t that deep They will go away with time. But what about the pain that you left me with? But people say I am lucky It was not too much.
“Alas! I was lucky!”, The girl screamed from heaven “Hey, listen up. I was a good object for a target Because I got drunk And predators preyed on me And teared my body apart And this time did not leave me with scars In face, this time they did not leave me. They filled their hunger for my body Then left me to die in water And even more terrifying part is yet to come. I was only ten When my father sold me to a person To feed his needs because I was not a person Now I was a sexual object And I would be ‘lucky’ if I could save myself Otherwise, The clothes, the age, the time of the day would be enough for them to label my character
Yes, #Metoo for the little girl in the frock#Metoo for the lady that is raped everyday by her husband#Metoo for the 8 year-old preyed on by her uncle And #Metoo for the catcalling, staring and inappropriate touching You say it isn’t that serious
You tell girls to behave in a certain way so they don’t get raped
You say I’m lucky
The scars you left me with are deep till today No, I do not say that men are trash But can those men be a little more human?
Opinions expressed are of the writer.
*This poem was first published on Safecity.