The little girl stood on the footpath.
Lip quivering and a tear-stained heart.
9 years into this world and through a blur,
For the first time she saw it in a vivid range of colour.
Her legs were stained with red.
No. It wasn’t period blood.
Black under her eyes.
No. It wasn’t the kajal a girl applies.
Two bruises received on her arm when she fought them in the shanty.
No. Purple isn’t just the colour of royalty.
Her heart were shades of green envying girls who hadn’t experienced these.
No. It was wrong to think of green as only the comfortable shade of trees.
Every little girl’s favorite colour is pink except her, who was still in shock.
No. For her pink represented the torn remains of her beautiful frock.
A rainbow lay scattered all around her
As another rainbow took shape.
9 years. She should have been playing with dolls.
Only 9 years. She was a victim of rape.
She isn’t the first girl, nor will she be the last
At least not till the ‘unlaws’ against this hold fast.