It happens

6.32 AM

On a lazy Sunday morning of the December winter in the suburbs of Mumbai, I was on a morning walk, counting the leaves on the deserted road, feeling the winter chill in my eyes. It was a bright dawn. A white dawn. The gentle breeze was touching my skin, making it a little moist. The sun was trying to fight with the morning darkness with his sword rays. The birds were chirping. The breeze had set a rhythm. Everything was responding, reacting, enjoying. I heard the morning.

I heard a girl scream. A scream that shattered my ear drums.
The guy ripped apart every part of the clothing that she was wearing. Her mouth was stuffed with enough cotton. Her eyes were wide open and staring expressionlessly at all of them, one by one. She closed her eyes and felt more naked than ever. She could just feel the weights shifting from her body for the next hour or so and an immense pain. All through she saw just one color. Black.

6.35 AM

The trees were moving in the rhythm. The sun had started making love to the ground, the trees. The dry leaves eloping with the wind. The dew losing herself in the sunlight. The chill making love to the warmth.
I could hear the trees, the birds, the slow rhythmic breeze, and my footsteps. I could hear the silence. The silence that was pure, serene. A silence that was white.

I heard a scream. Again. This time the voice was shrill. Soon I realized it was a child’s voice.

She had stopped screaming. It was her uncle. She knew something was wrong. He drew her close. She wanted to scream. She didn’t. She couldn’t. The pain made her numb. For the next 3 minutes she didn’t scream. For the rest of her life, she never spoke.

6.38 AM

It was really amazing to see the sun making love to the ground. I was walking against the wind. The soft warmth of the sunlight was amazing. The serenity was divine.
The soft music of the mornings was embedded in my soul. The dawn was white.
I wanted to walk another mile…………………………………………………………………………


In India, a woman is raped every 3 minutes. Wake up.