A Feminist Manifesto By Ink Soul Poem by Ink Soul

A Feminist Manifesto by Ink Soul

— Inspired by August 9,2024, Incident in Kolkata
Something Happened — but What?

A Cry — I Cry
I cry —
See it in my eyes,
O dear, my true and genuine tears,
Falling endlessly,
I cry.

Believe me, I truly cry —
A day without end,
A tear-filled sky,
A storm within me,
I cry.

Thoughts clouded,
Yet no answers come,
I cry.
I failed,
I failed as a human being —
Yes, I cry.

I cry, and cry, and cry,
Can you feel it?
My tears are real.
Hear the voice of my eyes,
The silent scream —
I cry.

I cry for justice denied,
For truth not yet spoken,
For wounds unseen,
For the right time that never came,
I cry.

Believe me, dear,
I really cry —
That day, tears fell from my heart,
Out of pain,
Out of unspoken grief,
I cry.

Where is he? I scream,
I pray —
You came once,
Why not again?
Twice? Thrice?
But he does not come.
I cry.

I cried that day,
More than I ever thought I could,
A heart-shattering cry —
Felt deep within,
A voice lost,
Swallowed by shadows of sorrow.
I cry.

An unseen agony,
Faceless, nameless —
Yet, I cry.

A revolutionary cry —
Born of brokenness and dreams,
A cry of hope denied,
I search for solace,
But it slips through my trembling hands —
I cry.

I cry.
I cry until the world,
Blind to its own cruelty,
Remembers my tears.

A cry —
Not just a sound,
But the unraveling of a soul,
A painful cry —
Etched in the marrow of my bones,
Trembling in the silence.

A voiceless ache,
Carried in my chest,
Cradled deep within my heart,
I cry.

A faceless wound —
Unseen, unnamed —
Yet still, I cry.

A revolutionary cry —
Born not only of rage,
But of longing,
Of hope denied.
I search,
For justice,
For light,
For my name,
But find none.
So, I cry.

Yes, I cry.
I cry in defiance.
I cry until my cry becomes a manifesto —
A call to awaken,
To rise,
To never be silenced again.

Yes, I cry.
I actually cry —
Cry and cry,
Yes, a revolutionary cry —
I cry,
Until the cry itself becomes a manifesto.

But remember:
That cry will not bring a solution.
It will break you —
Mentally,
Physically,
Emotionally,
Spiritually,
Psychologically.

So you must fight —
Raise your voice,
Until a solution comes,
Until justice happens.

That night,
when her body was torn apart like a battlefield,
she called out — not once, but again and again.
To the sky,
to the wind,
to the God she was taught would come.

But the gods looked away.
Or perhaps they never existed in the places
where women are made to suffer in silence,
where justice forgets its name
and power hides behind divinity.

You ask, did she scream?
Yes.
Even the walls remember.
Hospitals trembled.
The earth shook.
But people remained still,
scrolling through reels,
lost in dopamine,
their thumbs moving faster than their hearts.

In another time,
Draupadi was disrobed in public,
but the myth says Krishna came,
thread by thread, her honor protected.
And yet now —
where was Krishna?
Where is God,
when another girl's dignity is swallowed by violence?

Is this still India?
Or is this the land
where the same tongue that chants 'Durga'
also spits acid on her daughters?

O man —
not beast,
not predator,
not god —
can you stand beside her
without reaching to control,
to decide,
to possess?

Can you become a wall
not of power,
but of protection?
Can you carry not her pain,
but your own silence —
and burn it?

She is not waiting to be saved.
She is waiting to be heard,
to be seen without threat,
to walk without fear,
to speak without being labeled,
to say no
without punishment.

A girl dreamed once of healing,
studying under a dim light,
choosing life over death,
while death waited patiently outside,
dressed not in a mask,
but in the face of a neighbor,
a cousin,
a stranger
who knew her only as opportunity.

What country allows this?
What god permits this?
What society celebrates its goddesses
while lynching its daughters
under cover of ritual and silence?

You want her to be quiet,
yet you ask why she doesn't speak.
You want her to stay inside,
yet say nothing when inside becomes the grave.
You teach her shame before wisdom,
obedience before courage.
You measure her clothes
but never your conscience.

And still,
she rises.
From ashes.
From reports never filed.
From courtrooms where cases rot for generations.
She rises with a scar not on her skin,
but on the soul of this nation.

This is not just a poem.
This is an oath.
We will rewrite this country.
Not with ink —
but with protest,
with movement,
with mothers teaching sons to unlearn.

We will write new laws
where no girl's scream is background noise.
Where power does not buy innocence.
Where justice has no caste,
no delay,
no blindfold.

Let us name her.
Let us remember August 9 not in mourning
but in fire.
Let us make her the last.
The very last.

No more idols of stone.
Let the god you worship be the courage
to stand up in court,
to call out your friends,
to protect without pride,
to love without control,
to believe a woman
before asking how late it was,
or what she wore.

This is how we begin.
Not with permission.
Not with forgiveness.
But with memory.
With truth.
With a vow:

Let no daughter fall again.
Not by your hand.
Not by your silence.
Not by your system.