An artistic representation of modern India.

𝙉𝙖 𝙢𝙪𝙟𝙝𝙚 𝙆𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙤𝙧𝙖,
𝙉𝙖 𝙢𝙪𝙟𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙖 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙖𝙝𝙖𝙮𝙖
𝙈𝙚𝙧𝙞 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙚𝙠𝙝 𝙗𝙝𝙞 𝙙𝙪𝙗 𝙜𝙖𝙮𝙞 𝙢𝙖𝙖
𝙈𝙚𝙧𝙞 𝙖𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙝 𝙢𝙚𝙞𝙣 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙖𝙞 𝙠𝙖𝙝𝙖𝙖𝙣

In a country where unabashed men prey on girls in the fields, in buses, in their homes on sacred land; fire crackling in the dead of the night, look into the eyes of those standing by the pyre cradling dead morality.

I can hear her whispering, “Maa, it’s lonely here. Even in the bounties of heaven, I’m shuddering from the inescapable heat”.
Why should the thick blood of every victim graffiti the walls of a broken democracy. A country where even colours have not been spared from partition; saffron veils Lord Ram and green swathes the Prophet while blood red paints the streets of polarisation.
Did you see the multicoloured dupattas strangling our daughters?
A Holi of holy victims.

You know, they say, heaven is under the feet of your mother. But an entire community is reminded of perpetual doom, suffering and ostracisation under the calloused feet of casteism from whence the legend dictates they were born.

I can see Saraswati, Lakshmi and Durga cry for their daughters as each one is shrouded in the hellish fires of injustice.

We will fight for you, we will fight against tyranny, injustice, rape, fascism and oppression. We will fight against silence.

                  ~ Alazné Qaisar 

Translation of the poem :

Neither was I enclosed in a shroud,
Nor were my ashes gifted to river Ganga
My screams have been stifled mom
Even my eyes have lost their tears

A global pandemic, severe border tensions on multiple fronts, and a crumbling economy, but the biggest source of fear for the women of our country is still men.
          ~ Sundareswaran Sharma

Why not change the cover story? Nobody is going to know. Why not burn the evidence to ashes? Nobody is going to question. Why not rape her? Nobody is going to come after him. Question the family, humiliate her dead body, confuse the media, tag it “honor killing,” nobody is going to come for the truth. Even if justice is served, will he ever witness what she did? Will he ever feel the pain of puberty or the pain of birth or the pain of his penis being pushed into her, not being able to fight nor being able to distinguish whether it was her uterus bleeding or her consciousness draining. Will he ever face the pain of being the accused, when he was the victim? After all his drained sources, he asks her to remain silent, while she is screaming to know who's fault it was. He goes back to his duty, while she lays dead, serving her eternity in pain. May any woman raise her hand to say that she had not witnessed any of such, and I will leave everything and watch my grave burn.

                                                                ~ N. Harshavardhini

Concept and Photography : Samyuktha Kartha