They say it’s shame.
That’s what they call her name —
when they find her wrists cold,
her dupatta tied to a beam,
or her body pulled from a well.

She chooses her heart —
and pays with her life.

She walks out with someone,
and never comes back.
Not because she ran,
but because they chased.
Not because she hid,
but because they found.

They found her laughing.
And they could not bear it.

Over 1,200 cases a year —
that's the price they pay for choosing.
Not for crime.
For defiance.

They never lit fires for them.
They never carved their names in stone.
Just one police note,
and a silence at home.

But we remember.
Every girl they dragged,
every boy they broke.
We remember their names,
even when the village does not.

They were good.
They were brave.
They were right.
Still — they bled, and bled to death.

And yet,
every story they tried to bury
became a seed.
It bleeds.
But it blooms.
Always.

And we —
we will not bow at the same burnt altar.
We are not your lineage.
We are not your shame.

We do not explain.
We do not ask.
We declare.

Neither your property,
nor your transaction.
This body, this heart, this future — is mine.

It was yours for nine months —
and even then, it beat alone.
After that, it was mine.
My breath.
My voice.
My fire.

You gave me life —
not chains.

You won’t bear my fall,
then don’t claim my flight.

Raise me —
but let me rise.
I’ll carry your name,
but not your weight.

Mine is mine.
And I go as me.

And if you come to tear it apart,
then come.
With your honour.
With your lathis.
With your threats —
all to be torn apart.

We come like rain on dry roofs —
uninvited, loud,
and impossible to stop.

Mine is mine.
And I will walk where I will —
head high, hand firm,
unafraid of your silence,
unshaken by your name.

Let the lathis fall.
Let the elders spit.
Let the whole panchayat sit.

I will not kneel.
And I will not quit.

Sita walked through fire. Still, exiled.
Buddha spoke peace. Still, abandoned.
Socrates questioned. Still, poisoned.
Jesus healed. Still, crucified.
Husain stood firm. Still, slaughtered.
Gandhi freed us. Still, shot.
Martin Luther King dreamed. Still, silenced.
Love rose. Still, buried.

Right was never safe.
True was never spared.
But it walked on.
And still does.
And forever will.

~ Apurva

Image Credit: "Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair" by Frida Kahlo