Handful of Dust

Once, I wore a white coat,
A splash of dignity, power, and promise.
I was the healer,
My daughter’s hero,
My parents’ pride,
The girl who carried their world in her palms.

And then—
It happened.
Not on a deserted street, not in the shadows,
But in a conference room,
Where exhaustion was my only crime.
A drunk man stumbled in,
Turned predator,
And wrote my obituary with his sin.

That night I died twice—
First, in my own body,
And then, when my soul begged for escape.

From heaven, I watched the chaos:
Doctors marching, candles burning,
Placards screaming justice—
Justice, that hollow word our courts love to sip like tea,
Slow, lukewarm, tasteless.

I was once my father’s pride,
Mama’s universe—
Now, I am a headline,
A protest,
A slogan on someone’s cardboard.
A handful of dust.

Tell me—
What was my fault?
That I was tired?
That I was a woman?
Or simply that I dared to breathe in a country
Where being born female
Is considered an open invitation?

I remember a little girl whispering to me,
“I don’t want to be a doctor anymore. I’m scared.”
And my ghost wept louder than the living ever will.

So answer me this:
Will you change?
Will you ensure
That womanhood is no longer treated as a sin,
Or will you let the next girl
Write her story in dust too?

~Adhira~

I am Adhira. I write to tear through silence, to expose the rot behind polite smiles, and to hold a mirror to the world’s darkest truths. My pen does not whisper—it strikes.