My Name Is Richa

My Name Is Richa prose poem

Photo by VinothChandar


My name is Richa…
Does it really matter?! It could’ve been
Mala …Seema…Sita..Nirbhaya or even Chabili..
In the end I would’ve been married to a much older man..
or abandoned after impregnating in a forest..
I wash utensils …clean floors.. look after the children
of the affluent ..
I sit and eat with the children when the guests arrive..
That is suppose to be the epitome of righteousness..
On my masters’ part..
Denying education to me is my privilege..
After all if not for these people ..
I would’ve landed in a Brothel..
Trade of my flesh would be much more grave..
Than the trade of my Soul…
It is a small price to pay you see..
Just clean floors and serve coffee…
wow! I’ve landed a “real GOOD deal”
I have more sisters …enough of me
let’s talk about them now..
One of them got raped in a school..
Before she could understand the meaning of RAPE..
she experienced it..
Much better than getting brutally killed..
Isn’t it? or You will say something else this time..
I’ve sisters in your class too… I pity them.
Even more..
Poor Girls they are growing up in a castle..
where soul searching is abandoned…
Of course I would’ve landed in a Brothel…
Much worse than enduring burns on my feet..
and kick on my stomach…
or I dream this violence?!!
I guess it is a dream…
Nightmare is awaited …
in eagerness

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