**Pre-Teen Girls (The Calves):**
The fate of the youngest girls was the most depraved and inhumane. They were seen as blank slates upon which the new order could write its most absolute message of power. They were not sent to brothels or given as gifts. They became living, breathing toys and pets for the children of the new Hindu elite.
In the grand mansions of the conquerors, a pre-teen Muslim girl would be given to a Hindu family’s son or daughter as a “pet.” She was dressed in elaborate, humiliating costumes—little-girl versions of the sheer sarees, or sometimes just bells and ribbons. She was not allowed to speak. She communicated through gestures. She ate from a bowl on the floor. She was trained to perform tricks: to dance on command, to fetch things, to kneel and bow her head.
The psychological torment was absolute. She was a constant, living reminder of a conquered people, a powerless creature whose only purpose was to amuse the child of her master. The abuse was often subtle and sickeningly intimate. The Hindu child would be encouraged to “play” with their pet in ways that blurred the lines between childhood cruelty and nascent sadism, pulling her hair, pinching her, ordering her to degrading tasks, all under the proud, watchful eyes of their parents. The pre-teen girls were the ultimate symbol of the conquest: the innocent, made utterly and permanently impure.
The nation was finally “liberated.” There was no more war. There were no more Muslims. There were only the Owners and the Owned. The streets were clean, the temples were full, and a profound, suffocating silence had fallen over the land, a silence broken only by the weeping that no one was allowed to hear.
The hammer of conquest fell on Hamid’s family not with a bang, but with the splintering of their front door. It was a Tuesday, the day of “Taxation” in their sector. Hamid, at sixteen, was dragged into the street with his father, their hands bound, forced to their knees to watch. The Hindu mob, a mix of local thugs and uniformed RSS men, moved with the practiced efficiency of a sanitation crew cleaning up garbage. They had come to collect their due.
**Aisha (35, The Mother):**
Aisha’s fate was to be a living testament to defeat. As the men held her husband and son, two of them grabbed her. They didn’t bother with the ritualistic stripping of the early days. They simply tore her burqa from her body, the fabric ripping like a wound. Her body, still firm from a life of hard work and motherhood, was exposed to the leering crowd. The leader, a man with a potbelly and a thick, greasy mustache, ran his hands over her curves, squeezing her breasts and slapping her ass.
“Prime breeding stock,” he grunted, looking at her file on a tablet. “Three children. Healthy. Assign her to Commander Rana.”
She was not taken to a brothel or a camp. She was a “Dharma Gift,” a high-value trophy. Her head was shaved in the town square, her long, dark hair falling to the ground to be swept away with the rest of the day’s filth. A hot iron branded the symbol of a trishul onto her left buttock, the smell of her searing flesh mingling with the incense from a nearby temple. A steel collar, engraved with “Commander Rana – Property,” was locked around her neck.