( a short story, dedicated to the soul who put the 🔥 back in my heart this evening..by saying, pain too must have a voice..so may 'she' have her voice)
They were pulling her by her hand over the dusty hot cobbled road, covered with animal feaces and shoes ...Shoes and chappals of all shapes and sizes was all that she could see, as she howled her heart out in pain, in anguish, in fear, in shame!!
A bunch of young men were dragging her across the road to the choupal, her blue sari torn and soiled, falling off her shoulders, her beautiful braids sweeping through the dust, and worst of it all, her little kid scared and howling, running behind her...the mother in her panicked at the fate of her child, the human in her screamed at the denial of the person, who refused to own up to his commitments, the society scowled on her as the fallen women.
She could only see the drooping heads of the village women, covered by pallus, who did not even have the guts to save her child from viewing the ignominy of her mother..
A little farther away from the crowd, the legal owner of her life was eyeing a buxom women and enjoying the tamasha.
The man she loved was silent, silent at her defeat, silent at her humiliation..She knew a few acres of land to her name would have made all the difference!
The crowd was jeering, young boys were eager to see the climax. It would be a sanctioned gang rape..the punishment for infidelity for the woman, for the man, there was always a next time.
But she chose to write her own climax. She would never take that pain, that insult.. eyes fixed on her child, saliva pouring down her half opened mouth..the body was left behind, poisoned...the soul continued in its journey. ..blood soaked, torn, wailing... seeking justice..