Her chronicle!

At 5, she loved her mother.
At 7, they wished they had a son...

At 10, she loved her father.
At 12, they prayed to have a son...

At 15, she loved her best friend.
At 17, they thought they have had enough of her...

At 20, she loved him.
At 22, they said, ‘She’s gone! Ah! Finally, we’re done!’...

At 25, she loved his family.
At 27, there wasn’t a sign of her...

At 30, her father was queer, her mother looked wretched, her friend sought justice, he loved his new bride, his family was counting money...

All what remained of her was a broken, melted bangle, a charred piece of her sari maybe, a little ash and lots of dust in that barren, burnt, ruined house, struggling with loneliness.

The Ultimate Greed

To and fro, To and fro, her fingers go, round the candle’s wick.
“This is fun.” she thinks, “Ohh! What a trick!”

Her saree well draped,
The flow of fire, liquid.
Her delicate anklets tinkling,
The burning feet.

To and fro, To and fro, her fingers go, round the candle’s wick.
“This is fun.” she thinks, “Ohh! What a trick!”

The tongue of fire,
Her lush dark hair;
The jasmine fragrance fading;
The overpowering reek.

To and fro, To and fro, her fingers go, round the candle’s wick.
“This is fun.” she thinks, “Ohh! What a trick!”

Her lovely face, melting,
Her teary eyes, sparkling.
Her gasps for breath, heaving,
Her cries for relief.

To and fro, To and fro, her fingers go, round the candle’s wick.
“This is fun.” she thinks, “Ohh! What a trick!”


Women, both of them,
The killer and the victim.
One plays with the candle,
The other is the wick.

To and fro, To and fro, her fingers go, round the candle’s wick.
“This is fun.” she thinks, “Ohh! What a trick!”

Her smile, smug, contorted
Her gaze, intense hatred.
Her eyes eager, hungry;
The ultimate greed.

To and fro, To and fro, her fingers go, round the candle’s wick.
“This is fun.” she thinks, “Ohh! What a trick!”

A voice against Dowry Deaths, on Women's day.