Her

By Aaradhya Sinha

She was two months old,

wrapped in innocence,

And still, you asked: what did she do?

She was a doctor,

saving lives in the dark hours,

scrubs on skin, duty in her veins

And you asked: Why was she out so late?

She was sixty,

bones fragile,

wisdom-rich,

But not even wrinkles could shield her.

She was married,

But her “NO” was drowned by holy vows,

Violated by the man who promised forever,

And the law said it’s not wrong if you’re wed.

And she wasn’t asking for it.

She was fighting for it,

for respect, for space,

For voice, for peace.

Dragged through digital mud

By boys too scared of women who shine,

While she builds her empire.

The comment section: a graveyard

Where empathy was buried years ago.

Where cowards with Wi-Fi ask

Why a woman should dare to choose.

But it’s because we are tired.

Tired of wrapping our dignity in pepper sprays.

Tired of apologising for simply existing.

Tired of counting girls and burying dreams

Under courtroom questions and media noise.

And when you ask her what she was wearing, here’s my answer,

She was wearing fear and fire.

She was carrying hope and history.

She was doing nothing but living.

And that?

That was enough for her to rise.

By Aaradhya Sinha