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.
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.
Mine is mine.
And I go as me.
Sita walked through fire. Still, exiled.
Gandhi freed us. Still, shot.
Right was never safe.
True was never spared.
But it walked on.
And still does.
And forever will.