The last few days were filled with thoughts of a little girl who was raped and murdered. It was also a period of celebration with many Indian new years yet I could find no joy. I couldn’t find myself the will to wish or greet anyone and stayed away from people. I just kept thinking of little Asifa’s family and how the horrific incident would haunt them. Eventually, time will dull the sharp stabbing pain but not anytime soon. As for us, our lives go on after spurts of indignation and horror every time the topic comes up but I can’t seem to shake off the despair. It’s strange, this overwhelming sorrow when I am usually able to stay frustratingly stoic.

That little girl is just one such statistic amongst the hundreds that go unreported. For every Asifa, there are many such little Asifas who bleed to death, their cries of terror smothered with their lives. The history of our race is splashed with the blood of its girls and women and the red will continue to flow until we reach a place of fearlessness in our collective history.

I’ve been unable to find the little fun in posting saree pictures and am a little shaken with the symbolism of red. Much as it is life giving, it is also the blood that writhes in agony and dries into forgotten history.

I’ve been hesitant to use this space to speak about any news because I don’t have either experience or knowledge about anyone or anything other than myself. Yet, Asifa’s story has been playing on repeat loop in my mind and I’ve been trying to see beyond the common baying for blood of the perpetrators. As a society, as a people how did we grow such monsters. It’s easy to search for reasons in their lives but perhaps we are responsible.

Pardon my incoherence as I’m still shocked and my words have lapsed into a dark dumbness.

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