An untold story


Yes, I could smoke a cigarette,
Roll a joint and smoke weed too.
I could wear a short skirt
and reveal my shapely thighs,
And a fleeting look at my white-lace panties,
while I changed positions on the car seat,
Could give my friends wet dreams.

Yes, I called them friends.
I knew them, and well.
We sat at the nearby barista,
for three long years,
having discussions on women reservations
in politics.
And how disgusting eve-teasing is.
I sat with them till midnight.
Till they drove us out.

Yes, you can check.
I had clumsily spilled the espresso,
You can check for the stain,
In the stark white cup,
I’m sure you’ll find it. Prominent.

I could dance like a queen.
High on alcohol, not wine,
But whiskey. I was old enough.
The careless strap of my bra,
While I jumped and shook a leg,
Could give my friends wet dreams.

Yes, They were friends.
For three long years.
And then I knew I’d miss them.
So I wanted that night to go on,
forever, like there’s no tomorrow.

I was familiar with the pink walls,
The smell of raw tobacco and
after-shave lotion. I felt so nostalgic.

And then before I knew,
I faced fiends. Monsters, brutal,
they hurt me. I heard sounds,
beastly ones, I have never heard them before.
I never knew they existed,
Underneath that soothing voice.

I did not cry for help.
I could not.
I choked and I died.
Yes, That was death.
I have no other word for rape.

I am not a victim.
I do not like that word.
I shall use another instead.
I am a WOMAN.
And when they say I invited it,
I’m to blame, I do not cry.
I cannot. I choke.
I die. Another death.
Countless million deaths.
I still haven’t found a word for rape.

Ishani Banerjee

Image Source: The Viewspaper