She wears a saree, flowing with grace,
In chudidhar or burka, she claims her space.
Her clothing does not invite the shame,
The fault lies in those who stoke this flame.
It’s not her fabric that needs to bend,
But a culture that must choose to defend.

She is eight, with laughter pure,
She is eighteen,with dreams secure.
She is eighty, wise and kind,
Yet none are spared by cruel minds.
It’s not her age that draws the fight,
But a world too blind to...