We sit in a darkened auditorium, surrounded by people in colorful Indian dress, the music of Indian in our ears, entranced by the daughter of friends performing Arangetram, the beginning dance of a dancer’s life. This girl, whom we’ve known since she was small, a girl who pulled carpet with my husband and her father, is at sixteen, a beautiful young woman. She dances for almost three hours with only a few breaks; enchanting, pouting, exciting, withdrawing, holding poses that would break strong men. In one part, she dances the story of a young maiden being importuned by a god. She says she’s not yet ready, asks him to wait until she is old enough. She looks gorgeous; her dances are marvels of vivid beauty.
She finishes, suddenly a gawky teen once again, giggling, slightly bent rather than erect and poised, chattering through her thank-you’s, moved to tears by her parents’ generosity and love, giving shout-outs to her friends.
Watching her dance, my mind drifts away to the stolen girls of Nigeria, victims of evil men, torn forever from their families. I cry inwardly for the two girls, 12 and 14, gang-raped and lynched as they relieved themselves at night in a country (India) with more access to mobile phone than toilets, and so many, many more such victims. They will never dance; never know that colors and beauty of their countries; never be gawky teens, filled with the joys and terrors of school and life; never see their families again or, just perhaps, become the next Indira Gandhis. Their innocence and lives were taken by the very men who should have cherished and protected them, an ultimate betrayal, deserving of death.
men without honor
ravish those they should protect
peacock’s scream splits night
This, that and the other thing 