From Ancient Temples to Modern Streets — How One Wound Refuses to Heal
Note: This blog was originally published on Medium on [14/08/2025]. Sharing it here for my BMC readers too 🤍
Photo by cottonbro studio On Pexels
Update: Just a day after this blog went live, reality hit like a punch: news from Gujarat reminds us how these struggles are still happening today.
News source: Times of India
It’s not just a statistic — it’s a living reminder of the ongoing struggle women face for autonomy over their own bodies.
Shadows, Whispers, and the Red Thread
Incense thickens the air inside the temple. Shadows from flickering oil lamps sway across the stone walls.
She sits on the cold steps, the chill creeping into her skin. Around her wrist, a thin red thread — tied minutes ago by the priest. She doesn’t fully understand its meaning, but she knows one thing: tonight will change everything.
“Don’t look into their eyes,” a large woman whispers behind her. “It’s better that way.”
Strangers enter. Faces half in shadow. One of them points at her.
The priest nods.
Her heartbeat quickens. She rises.
Afternoon, I was stuck in the corner of a cafe. Outside, rain was pummeling the glass.
In front of me, a book with yellowed pages.
It speaks of her — of a time when, under the names of tradition, faith, or honor, some women were expected to spend the night with strangers. Sometimes enslaved, sometimes “free.” But the decision was never theirs.
The words are flat on the page, but in my mind, she’s alive.
I see her trembling hands. I hear the muffled hum of a crowd. And I realize , this isn’t just the past.
Her Story
She is sixteen. Daughter of a fisherman, daughter of a woman who sells fruit in the market.
When the temple’s summons came, her family didn’t refuse. They were told it would please the gods.
She knew the truth , it was about money.
That night, she’s led into a small room behind the altar. One dim lamp in the corner. A stranger places a coin on the table. The priest picks it up.
Her eyes stay fixed on the floor. She’s told to think of it as sacred. But all she can picture is the old fig tree in her family’s yard.
When it’s over, she drops the coin into a wooden chest. It will feed her family for a week. But it will never be hers.
Photo by busranur-aydin On pexels
The Mirror We Avoid. We like to believe such things belong to history.
But do they?
The names have changed, but the game is the same. Different rooms, same rules. The costume shifts, but the wound is in the same place.
Today, it happens under softer words , opportunity, entertainment, choice.
A woman’s body still works as currency , for survival, for approval, for someone else’s profit.
Some truly choose it.
But for many, the alternative is hunger, eviction, or crushing debt.
The era changes. The setting changes. The transaction doesn’t.
Back then, women in this role were marked by their clothing or even the color of their hair — so everyone could recognize them.
People would glance at them in secret, but insult them in public.
Their children were denied legitimacy.
Their voices didn’t count.
A few gained influence through beauty or talent, but even that came through men’s permission. For most, life was an endless bargain.
Now — The Same Double Standard
Sound familiar?
Society still keeps two lists, acceptable and shamed.
It still hands you a flower and then pricks you with the thorn.
A woman’s bodily autonomy is still measured against someone else’s yardstick, sometimes the law, sometimes fashion, sometimes the unspoken rule of silence.
Gender equality is not just about jobs, voting rights, or leadership positions.
It’s also dismantling the ancient belief that a woman’s body is never fully hers, always available for someone else’s use.
In my mind, she steps out of the temple. The night air chills her face. A shawl over her shoulders. Eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Suddenly, she changes, modern clothes, neon lights overhead, shoes in her hand, scanning for a safe ride home.
Centuries apart.
Same walk- Same fear- Same system.
Why This Story Still Matters
I can picture her so clearly because I’ve seen her before, not in a temple, but in our own streets.
She works two jobs, exhaustion heavy on her eyelids, yet still struggles to say no when a client crosses the line — because she knows the cost of that “no” might be her rent or her next meal.
She hears the same refrain, day after day, “Your worth is in your looks, not your mind.” Slowly, her mirrors stop reflecting her face and start reflecting only what others want to see.
Her job description never mentions her body, but the unspoken expectation hangs over her like a weight, a quiet, relentless pressure she’s never given permission to escape.
Gender equality will only be real when we start asking:
Who is still being treated as a thing, not a person?
The temple fades. The incense is gone. The red thread is untied.
But she’s still here.
And until she can walk at night without fear, without shame, without being claimed, our fight is not over.