Untouchably She
Untouchably She
For centuries, the lives of Dalit women in India have existed at the intersection of caste and gender violence. They carry not only the burdens of systemic oppression, exclusion, and economic deprivation, but also the silencing weight of generational trauma. In every gesture of labor - shaping clay, tending soil, sweeping streets - their work is essential yet unacknowledged, their humanity reduced to the touch of what others discard. “Untouchably She” is written as a requiem, not for one woman but for many - countless voices cut short by violence, invisibility, and neglect. The poem remembers them through the imagery of clay and cement: matter that can be molded, hardened, broken, and remade. These metaphors reflect the duality of their existence - fragile and enduring, violated yet unyielding. The repetition of She becomes a litany, each line invoking both individuality and collectivity. It is at once an intimate portrait and a chorus of mourning. Each stanza resists erasure by insisting that Dalit women are not silent objects of suffering, but human beings whose struggles demand recognition. This work does not aim to speak for them, but to honor their memory, to hold space for grief that has too often been buried in silence, and to remind readers that poetry, like protest, can become a vessel for dignity. “Untouchably She” is not only about suffering—it is about witnessing, remembering, and refusing to let these lives pass unmarked.
Untouchably She
Aashka R. Kancharla
a requiem for deceased Dalit women
She,
Who churns clay
The only thing She is entitled to touch
She,
Who churns clay
Until marking it dry
To become fresh cement
She,
Whose lips quiver at a recurring sadistic gaze
She,
Whose sinking knees fought with trembling feet to stay standing
She,
Whose drooping eyelids dared to dream of a sleep only heaven held
She,
Who swallows her tears and cries in breaths
She,
Whose aching chest swells as every nerve moves her drowsy arms
She,
Whose plastic bangles suffocate her wrist
Breathing through holes on impaled skin
She,
Whose dry eyes trace red tears trickling down her fingertips
She,
Whose eyebrows wince together, pushing out a red bindi between them
She,
Who churns clay that is red now
She,
Who forgets to breathe as the sadistic gaze towers over
She,
Whose looks up
Until spit usurps her eyes
She,
Whose wet eyes fall to dry cement floor, scrambling to find a place in this world
She,
Who dips into the only thing She is entitled to touch
She,
Who marks herself dry to become fresh cement
--
Aashka Kancharla
Student Researcher | Future Architect & Advocate for Design Justice
"Designing with empathy, writing with purpose."