Yamini Parashar is pursuing her BA from Delhi university. She likes to write poems and observe things and is concerned with social issues. She identifies herself as a feminist and sees herself as a clinical psychologist in a few years. She’s been a part of a few poetry programmes held in her city.


They say I’m lucky that I am fine,
That I didn’t get any deep injuries but
What about the injuries that tear me down deep within?
I sing many jingles to keep me going
“It was not your fault… it was not your fault…”
But everywhere I go, everyone I meet
Catcalling on the running street
Touching my ass in the rush of the metro
The stare of those eyes rips my heart apart


8, I was when it first happened
But they say I’m lucky
That it was not much
Sexual assault is what it’s called
But they say walking in the moonlight might provoke people
“Don’t go out at night.
People may character shame you.
Girls from good families do not roam at night.”
So, I chose daylight
but then they objectified me.
Not even the girl in the little frock was spared
she has more scars than her age
Not even aware what sexuality is
She is cursed in the name of ‘honor’


Then their next predator was the women in their house
Uncle touched my niece when no one was at home
He bathed with her touching with his dirty hands
Then they say, “You must not have worn appropriate clothes.”
But wait! What what about their appropriateness?
The grudges and disgust that you have toward me
If you directed them toward the rapist the world could be a better place.
But they say I’m lucky
That my scars aren’t that deep
They will go away with time.
But what about the pain that you left me with?
But people say I am lucky
It was not too much.


“Alas! I was lucky!”,
The girl screamed from heaven
“Hey, listen up.
I was a good object for a target
Because I got drunk
And predators preyed on me
And teared my body apart
And this time did not leave me with scars
In face, this time they did not leave me.
They filled their hunger for my body
Then left me to die in water
And even more terrifying part is yet to come.
I was only ten
When my father sold me to a person
To feed his needs because I was not a person
Now I was a sexual object
And I would be ‘lucky’ if I could save myself
The clothes, the age, the time of the day would be enough for them to label my character


Yes, #Metoo for the little girl in the frock
#Metoo for the lady that is raped everyday by her husband
#Metoo for the 8 year-old preyed on by her uncle
And #Metoo for the catcalling, staring and inappropriate touching
You say it isn’t that serious

You tell girls to behave in a certain way so they don’t get raped

You say I’m lucky

The scars you left me with are deep till today
No, I do not say that men are trash
But can those men be a little more human?

Opinions expressed are of the writer.


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