Needs of a Woman

What if life is nothing but a courtroom, where we stand on trial every single day? Every word we speak, every step we take—just another argument to justify our existence. The moment we stop—our fate is decided. Either we are sent to jail, which is heaven because no one can disturb us or force explanations out of us anymore, or we are released into the real world, where stopping means death. The worst fate? Being asked to explain ourselves, only for our answers to be rejected unless they fit the rigid mold of another’s expectations.

And so, this story begins in a courtroom. A divorce case unfolds, and the arguments sound something like this—

Lawyer:

What do you expect from her days?

She drowns in chores, lost in the maze.

She gave up her dreams, her passion, her art,

Yet you call her cold, as if she lacks heart?

She was pressured to bear your children, endured the strain,

Her own desires cast down the drain.

A caged bird sings, yet no one hears,

Her love dismissed, her cries met with sneers.

Husband:

I didn’t want to bring this up, but now I must,

She clings to me—too much, too fast.

She seeks my warmth like the sun at dawn,

But my world is spinning, I must move on.

She yearns for touch, she aches for more,

Yet I walk in drained, my shoulders sore.

Is it my fault? Is she too strong?

Or is her hunger for love just... wrong?

The judge shifts in his seat, awkward, uncertain. He grants the divorce, no fines, no charges, just a clean break. The law finds no crime in a husband erasing a woman’s dreams. After all, if she dared to desire touch, does that not make them even?

Can’t blame the judge, I guess. But the story does not end here.

They part ways, each walking towards their new life. But before the husband moves on, he remembers—there are things to return. As he sifts through the remnants of a shared past, the memories come flooding in.

Oh, the apron mother gave with pride,

Wrapped in ribbons, joy untied.

Oh, I recall, she beamed so bright,

Or so I thought—bathed in light.

Oh, there's the red dress, bold and fine,

A gift from me, a love-wrapped sign.

Oh, here's the candle, soft and warm,

A flicker of love in a crafted form.

And finally—

Ah. Those secret things I despised, (Her intimate toys)

Whispered pleasures in silent cries.

Should I have known? Should I have guessed?

That even in love, she felt repressed?

He sends everything back. It would be embarrassing to deliver them in person.

When the package arrives, the wife, now Rishika, smiles bitterly. She had already taken everything important with her, hadn't she? Yet, as she opens the box, memories unfold.

Ah, the apron mother gave with pride,

Chains in silk, a fate implied.

Ah, I recall, my smile was staged,

A puppet's joy, a bird encaged.

Ah, there's the red dress, bright and loud,

A gift from him, yet not allowed.

Ah, here's the candle, soft and warm,

A waxen dream that lost its form.

And finally—

Oh. My quiet solace, my escape, (My intimate toys)

The only arms that let me shape

A world where love did not demand,

But simply held me, hand in hand.

Rishika moves on. A job comes easily, surprisingly so. At first, she believes they hired her for her skills. But soon, she realised—it wasn’t her resume they were impressed with. It was the way her lips curved when she spoke and the sway in her step.

Then, the whispers begin. Her divorce, her past, the things her husband said in court—stories that morph and twist in the office corridors. The air changes around her, and she feels it—

I don’t know why so many eyes surround,

Like restless ghosts, they pull me down.

Their gaze so heavy, it blurs my sight,

Till my reflection fractures in the light.

A twisted mirror, bent and swayed,

It shows the past, but the present fades.

It’s haunting how my body now gleams,

A stage for strangers’ hollow dreams.

My curves, a whisper, a sudden craze,

A prize to them—a hollow maze.

I only seek a space to be free,

Yet something here devours me.

And she is right.

Her instincts are right. One day, her boss gives her an unusual amount of work, forcing her to stay late. But she is not alone. Men who never worked overtime linger in the office.

She feels something is off. She picks up her things and walks toward the exit—

But they block her path.

They laugh. They ask questions. They repeat what her ex-husband said in court, words that should have died in the past but have followed her like shadows.

She pushes past them.

This happens again.

And again.

Until, one night—

My skin, it used to be my sacred shell,

Now it’s theirs—a hollow spell.

The beauty I once wore with grace,

Was tossed like silk in strangers' play.

I screamed, I begged, I tried to fight,

But my voice—A bird with broken flight.

A prison of echoes, lost in the night.

Ten men. That is what it took to silence her.

To remind her that in this world, a woman’s body is public property.

She does not go to the police. She does not return to the courtroom.

She goes home.

She enters her room. And then—

She climbs the ladder, step by step,

A quiet farewell, a final breath.

She knots her dupatta, pulls it tight,

A noose born from endless nights.

One end chokes against the fan,

The other grips her, just like those men.

She slips it round her weary neck,

Their hands replaced, but no less wrecked.

She rises once—her last ascent,

A goddess draped in discontent.

Then let go, surrender whole,

Falls to silence, lost control.

She dies as she lived, bound and confined,

A woman stripped of choice, redefined.

Ironically, she became a wife again. Because once more, her dreams were dead.

When her ex-husband hears the news, he tells himself she must have died regretting losing him. Perhaps it brings him some comfort.

And so, the world moves on.

But the real question remains—

Is it truly wrong for a woman to be sexually active with her husband?

Was the husband right, shaped by the beliefs of his parents?

Are we, as a society, justified in doing only what we were taught by those before us?And were the men at her office right— Simply because they saw a woman who dared to desire?

Then again— Isn’t this world just a courtroom, where we are all on trial?

My job is to tell the story. The answers—those are for you to decide.

-Dweep Goyal