We Are Angry is a fictional story. But it is built from facts.
A swell of revulsion spread across India, and the world, as details emerged about the barbaric gang-rape in New Delhi on December 16, 2012. Revulsion ruptured into anger. We were all angry. Beyond pissed off, out on the streets, mad as hell: a pit in our stomachs, an acrid tang in the back of our throats, and anger pumping through our veins. We were demanding justice, some even baying for blood.
Then came reports of a 5-year-old girl who faced a similar fate. And another.
Rape stories in India now pepper the newspapers, TV screens and internet every day. Did it become fashionable to report such news that was always there or did more victims feel a new courage to report such crimes? Or, as some suggested, was there really a new wave of brutality against women in a country struggling in its embrace of "modernity"? The anger had spiralled virulently into febrile navel gazing.
Introspecting. Questioning. Pontificating. Feeling repulsed, feeling scared, persecuted, calling for castration, calling for death, calling for tighter laws, calling for speed, calling for a change in beliefs, calling on God, calling off the shame. We were begging the government to care and the police to police. And for people - men and women - to think of women differently, to think of women as equals.
We are angry.
Keep debating.
We are angry.
Keep creating.
We are angry.
Keep talking.
