the house where she lived as a little girl
has become a star tourist attraction now.
Taxi drivers slow down, routinely
at the dusty approach road, bluntly
pointing it out, triumphantly –
Ah, that is the house
the must-see house
of the Suryanelli girl!
A picnic to Munnar is never complete
unless on the return trip
you see that house
the little pink house
of the Suryanelli girl.
Nobody has ever seen that girl
ever since the day she burst upon
like an atom bomb on news channels,
bleeding thighs, torn skirt and all –
still a secret satisfaction lurks there
in having seen that little pink house
of the Suryanelli girl.
She is not there on Facebook or Twitter
if you wish, you can….Google her name –
ah, not her name, for she has no name –
you may Google…. her little village
there you will see, in smart collage
the many activists, many ministers
who promised the whole world to her –
you get to know just about everything
about her, but except her
photograph, her given name:
the world knows her, yet knows not her
hidden face, her hidden name.
Her village has no other claim to fame
except this shame
which etched it into the World Atlas
from which she herself has vanished, of course
without a trace –
nameless, faceless, sunless
Suryanelli Girl.
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