The slogan that we should raise is not #NotAllMen but #WhyEvenOneMan
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The cry of her misery rippled through the narrow alley. It filled the empty spaces, awaken the night air. The echoes bounced from wall to wall, from corner to corner, hoping to reach someone who would hear. But like the tip of an extinguished flame, her echoes died in the thin air.
She tried harder. Cry after cry she let out in a desperate hope. She called her friends, she called her brothers. She called anybody who would hear. She begged and urged and prayed. She pleaded like a chicken about to be butchered.
But like the sails without the wind, her cry fell flat, lifeless and hopeless. She kept on howling, kept on crying. Louder at first, slowly later. But nobody came. Even the wind died down that night as if conspiring with the thousand others who chose to do nothing, who chose to ignore.
The last of her shrills pierced the indifferent walls and reached the adjoining places. It reached a few passers-by, and stunned a few ears. A few even stopped in their stances, trying hard to make out what was happening -but only for a moment. After that, everything resumed as if nothing ever happened.
Then, they continued on with their lives. The same people whom she had called her friends, her neighbors, her fellows, her brothers. The same people with whom she had walked that road, turned their faces in the other direction.
The scene painted a picture darker than the moonless night. A part of her died that night, a part of humanity died too. On that Bengaluru night of shame.
Like a fish out of the water, her struggle lasted for only a few moments. She wasn’t a match for his brute strength. She wasn’t weak, she wasn’t a quitter. It was just that this was not the game she was supposed to play. This game of hatred and disgust and lust she had neither known, nor expected.
She didn’t give up on humanity that night, she was too strong a woman for that. But she gave up on humans.