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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Don’t wear shorts — they’ll say you asked for it. But also don’t wear jeans — you’re being too Western. Saree? Salwar? Dupatta? — Oh please, that blouse was too tight. Basically, just wear shame. That’s safest, right? Don’t go out late — it’s dangerous at night. But if something happens in broad daylight? “Well, what was she doing alone in the first place?” (News flash: I was walking. Not an Olympic race.) Carry pepper spray. Learn karate. Walk fast. Don’t smile at strangers — they’ll think you’re “too easy” to harass. Don’t talk back. Don’t fight back. Stay soft, stay still. And if something goes wrong — remember, it’s your will. “Don’t be dramatic,” they say, “India respects women!” Right, just like the doctor raped in her own hospital den. And what about Varanasi, the city of gods? Where a woman was gang-raped in the shadows of holy ghats. Rivers of devotion now run with blood — But hey, let’s blame her clothes, or her ‘bad luck’ instead. “Boys will be boys,” they sigh, like it’s a medical condition. Like groping, stalking, and worse are just tradition. But when will girls be girls — carefree, fearless, loud? When will we walk home alone and feel proud? Oh wait — silly me, that’s not “Indian culture”. My safety depends on my clothes, my gestures, my posture. I’m told to pray for protection, light a candle and move on. But I’m tired of prayers — I want predators gone. To the youth — especially the boys — I say this: You don’t need to “protect” me, just don’t dismiss. Call out the jokes, the stares, the casual creep. This fight isn’t mine alone — it’s buried too deep. I don’t want curfews, I want justice that’s fast. I don’t want fear, I want freedom that lasts. Until then, I’ll walk with keys between my knuckles. And a smile on my face, hiding lifelong struggles. Because I’m a girl in India — Strong, smart, and always alert. Not because I want to be, But because survival is an everyday expertise, not a flirt. And being safe? Oh please. That’s just a bedtime story told to daughters before curfews kick in. Right after we learn how not to get raped as if that’s a skill we’re born with. Hope? That’s a luxury I can’t afford. Justice? Maybe in the next life, if I’m born a sword. Until then, I’ll keep my pepper spray, my fake phone calls, my calculated smiles, and a mental map of streetlights like it’s normal. Because here in the land of goddesses, we pray to women in temples and prey on them in alleys. And that my dear friends is not irony. It’s a crisis.
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