Now I Will Scream – “A Manifesto of the Silenced”

 “The rise of silence— to be born was to be silenced.” 

I was not born in words. 

Maybe I didn’t even cry as my first sound. 

A baby who cries at birth is called “healthy.” 

I was quiet— 

Labeled as “a bit frightened.” 

But don’t assume I was silent because I lacked courage. 

I was searching for a world that would let me speak. 

 

“Home—where the stove burns, the woman does too.”

Mother had one truth in her lifetime: 

“Weaves rooms by day, dreams by night.” 

Not understanding this, my dream-books 

faded into the smoke of the hearth— 

Laughter and songs lived in the house, but they were never mine. 

I was always like a morning bell tower— 

Ringing distantly— 

But no one listened. 

Or they pretended not to understand.

 

I was a flower 

without decoration. 

A forest 

chopped down under the name of marriage.

 

“Marriage—where silence becomes institutionalized”

After age thirteen, 

my body moved forward, 

but my mind— 

like water trapped in a glass— 

remained unspoken.

 

A husband fifteen years older. 

Two co-wives. 

I was the third— 

like a “new experiment.”

 

The co-wives cast glances. 

The first lost sleep. 

The second said, 

“Are you our cursed fate or our penance?”

I was never called “you”— 

just “the recent one.” 

 

“Motherhood—where a child grows inside tears.”

 

With an absent husband 

I raised two children. 

In doing so, 

I found I had hidden my own existence.

 

The stove appeared to laugh— 

I cried looking at it. 

When milk ran out at the children’s bedtime, 

I apologized to my own breasts. 

“Why won’t you let them live freely?”

 

While wiping their noses, 

I stepped on my own aspirations. 

Yesterday I was a woman, today I am a mother— 

But was never allowed to be a soul.

 

“Society—a man-made circle, a chamber of judgment.”

 

When the husband stopped breathing, 

people started looking through my window. 

Some disguised it as help, 

some as pity— 

but every gaze 

shamed me before it saved me.

 

“You're alone now, sister-in-law.” 

“Let me help you forget—come on.”

“Forget?” 

Those who came as reminders, 

how could they make me forget?

 

Turning my grief into temptation, 

they branded me 

with the stain of manhood.

 

“Religion and shame—two cages, one mynah.” 

Women go to temples— 

to let God speak, 

while they themselves 

stand quietly at the edge— 

No dreams are heard, no screams— 

only mantras spoken 

by a male priest—writing my destiny.

 

My “shame” is called my “honor.” 

My silence—my *devotion trembling in fear.*

 

You speak of religion? 

Truth is—religion never supported me. 

It only fed me the sour fruit of sorrow.

 

My mind trembled— 

Am I a story? Or a violation per line? 

Then I remembered— 

If I have no voice, 

Silence must become rebellion. 

And my voice quivered: 

“I was never a wife— 

just a forsaken destination. 

Now, I will not be silent!”

 

“The Scream—now I will not be silent.” 

I will not be a model of silence. 

I will not be a goddess of endurance.

 

Even my stove screams. 

My clothes make noise as I put them on— 

I was never a “choice”— 

I was human. 

You made me optional— 

Now I will become essential.

 

“I scream— 

I am no longer afraid. 

Because I already died, 

Now I can live again.”

 

Looking in the mirror— 

I am not filth, 

I am a resounding voice—changing forms.

 

You write blame on my grave, 

With the same pen you shrunk.

 

Now, I am a mouthpiece -

For those who carried rebellion 

even in silence.

 

I do not walk behind— 

I return— 

On paper, in alleyways, in education, in language. 

I am no longer just a woman— 

I am the scream of consciousness.

 

– And you—what will you do?

Can your chest bear the weight this deep— 

or are your words light, 

and your conscience even lighter?

 

I ask you: 

– Will you give this society honor—or resistance? 

– Will you give voice to a woman—or scandal?

 

If—my scream 

says nothing to you, 

Then you are a signatory to society’s silence.

 

“Now I’ve spoken—be ready to hear.”

Decide— 

Which page shall I become? 

Of history—or of the future? 

What imprint will you take? 

Of silence—or of liberation? 

I am “Tilchhaya”—no longer hidden in shadow, 

I will scream beneath the sun.