The following poem by Sneha Hegde from Bengaluru was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020
It’s a chilly winter morning.
The town is still asleep,
in contrast with my bustling mind.
My breath makes tiny wisps of mist as I shiver,
and I pull my coat closer to my body.
As I do, I feel the broken bottle shard
resting in my pocket,
and I wonder if I’ll ever have to use it again,
the way I did last night.
I stand in front of the sprawling building,
feeling rather small,
as men and women in khaki uniforms
move about, tending to their duties.
I ask myself if they’ll ever be able to help me,
as cases like mine, although common,
tend to never reach them, and instead,
are swallowed by the stigma that surrounds them.
Even now, I can’t help but to think of the shame and guilt
that would be thrust upon me by the prying eyes of society,
if my intentions were to become known.
They wouldn’t accept me, they’d be ashamed of me.
I jolt out of my thoughts and shake my head.
As I turn to leave, head lowered,
my eyes fall upon the ring on my finger, and I feel trapped.
This could destroy everything that ring means.
At the same time, I remember why I’m here.
All the motivation rushes back to me, and my resolve hardens.
I need justice. We all need justice.
I cautiously make my way inside, to the man behind the desk,
his badge and medals displayed proudly across his shirt.
I lean over to shake his hand,
and he notices the scratches all along my forearm.
I close my eyes,
and begin to recount the harrowing experience of last night,
how I was pinned down, the weight of his body cracking my ribcage,
how I can still taste the gag that prevented me from screaming,
how every inch of my body was explored while silent tears trickled down my cheeks,
how I tried to push him off, but all I got was a slap to the face,
how I was shoved aside when it was over,
all by myself, with only my thoughts
and the sheet that covered me,
how I was scared and all alone…
As I relive the last of it, I open my eyes,
expecting to see the outrage on his face.
He says nothing for a second,
then to my dismay, begins to laugh, his belly heaving with the effort.
“Madam, you say he is your husband.
Then how can it be rape?”
His words echo in my mind as I make my way back home,
fighting back tears, and I’m barely able to digest it.
My hands tremble as I unlock the front door,
only to see the bottle shards still all over the floor,
and him sitting on the bed, with his head bandaged,
leering at me, knowing there’s nothing I can do to escape.
My eyes fall upon the ring on my finger,
and I feel trapped.
“Section 375, Exception 2”