The pungent odor of the nearby gutter permeates the cramped, modest office. Faded pink paint peels off the four walls, boxing in three crummy wooden desks, a large computer, a creaky fan and a nearly dilapidated staircase.Thousands of beeping cars, screeching street vendors, strolling pedestrians and ringing temple bells fill the dusty, polluted air. This is Delhi. Shrill shrieks escaping from its speaker, the yellowed phone wobbles violently.
“Delhi’s Women Organization, what can we do for you?” replies Pooja with a slight accent, a long-time employee.
“The police found a woman a few nights ago on the side of Vasant Kunj. The doctors just released her. She was raped and beaten brutally. She is going to stay with us until they figure out the details. Please send Nisha. There are some legal issues that need to be worked out,” responds the crackly speaker.
“Theekh hai*.”
From the top of the ancient, monstrous computer, I hastily seize the gaudy orange dupatta and wrap it around my neck. I quietly follow the driver out of the office and into the narrow, seemingly endless street, cautiously skipping over and around puddles of dirty water and trash that seem to consume the area. After the tiring and jarring journey, we arrive at the hospital. A cursory glance reveals to me a small crowd of my colleagues and a few doctors surrounding the woman. Her once youthful, warm brown eyes look lifelessly into the dull blue sky. She slouches lazily in her rickety wheelchair, as if she was thrown into it, limp and frail. The wilting skin surrounding her eyes tense as I tread towards the cluster of people. Kneeling down in front of her, I gently lifted my arms to encircle her petite form into a heartfelt embrace.
“Mere saath jo hua hai, bahut galat hua hai. Kisee aur ke saat nahin hona chayihe**,” she whispers softly, her weak voice interrupted by irregular cracks. Her painful words remind me of a statistic included in the organization’s pamphlet: a woman is raped every twenty minutes in India.Every twenty minutes, a woman’s life is altered forever. Every twenty minutes, an unknowing woman is violated or encroached upon. A shameful permanent mark is made on her coffee-colored skin.
Warm tears begin to trickle down her fatigued, shapeless cheeks. Wispy, jet black strands of hair delicately brush against my face. Her longing eyes yearn for home:a loving place that would welcome her with adoration. But, her real home is now a place that rejects her, considers her a disgrace, and labels her a “slut.” Forever a victim, forever blamed. I place her cold, wrinkly hands in between mine, softly rubbing them in an attempt to recreate the lost warmth. Stretched minutes that feel like incessant hours pass, my arms still cloaked around her petite, fragile figure, as the unrelenting sun beats down on our backs.

*means, “okay,” in Hindi.
**means, “what happened with me was wrong. It shouldn’t happen to anyone else,” in Hindi.