Where does she have the right to say anything?
Her name is labelled "rape," and she has no hope in life. 
Every path leads to empty hands. 
Who can she talk to? She hasn't found anyone
She has tried to meet, and has been ridiculed everywhere.

“Everything is fine,” says her mother, who sits in a corner and cries when she hears her name being called by people. 
She doesn't know how her mother bears the pain.

Father is also silent; he knows that his daughter is innocent, his heart is also filled with anger, the body is awake, but the soul is unconscious.

What right did they have? Torturing her? Stealing the dawn from her life, leaving her in darkness? 
They could have done her one more favour before leaving; killing her would have been better than this life.

Had she died, the news would have appeared in the newspaper; she would not have hidden her eyes from people like this. 
Her justice would have echoed with the candles.
Even if only for a few moments, it would scare those sinners.

She endured so much pain; must anyone be to blame? The clothes, the face, the night, something must be wrong? They say she must have provoked her; this is a society where the guilty will be innocent.

To whom should she appeal? The law here is blind; ours is the only country where justice has the support of politics.

It takes years to catch the culprit or justice is delayed, the culprit either goes free or is hanged posthumously.

Her house is deserted, there are no guests, from now on she has no name, no identity,
She is a victim of everyone now,
She has many words but no tongue.

She doesn't want to become a burden on the shoulders on which she learnt to play, 
She is tired of trying, 
She doesn't want to do it anymore, 
Eyes of her family members have been moist for a long time,
She has died, but
She doesn't want to die now.

.    .    .