They found the women first. A mother, her face covered in a simple hijab, was clutching her two young daughters. The men tore the children from her arms. They ripped the hijab from her head, her black hair spilling out like a dark halo. One man held a knife to her throat while another, his eyes burning with a fanatical light, tore open her shalwar kameez. She was thrown onto a pile of broken crates, her body exposed to the leering, snarling crowd. They didn’t just rape her; they defiled her. One after another, and then two at a time, they took their turns, each act a violent prayer to the memory of Tanisha. Her screams were the soundtrack to the destruction of her world. Her daughters were forced to watch, their small bodies held immobile by rough hands, their innocence shattered forever.
Nearby, a young woman was cornered against the ancient red sandstone wall of the mosque. She was no older than Saniya had been. A man with a thick, black beard spat on her, calling her a whore. He didn’t rape her. He took a rusted iron rod from a nearby cart and shoved it inside her with such force that she was lifted off her feet. A fountain of blood sprayed the wall. The men roared in approval. This was not just lust; this was desecration. This was revenge, delivered in the most brutal language imaginable. The market, once a place of vibrant life, became a slaughterhouse, a temple of rape where the Hindu mob worshipped their rage with the bodies of Muslim women.
**Scene 2: Ayodhya Mandir, Ayodhya**
The news traveled faster than fire. In Ayodhya, the heart of Hindu faith, the atmosphere was thick with a different kind of tension—a predatory, vengeful glee. As evening aarti began in the main temple, a convoy of trucks and motorcycles roared into the holy city. They were filled with Muslim men, their faces grim, their eyes holding a cold, dead fire. They weren’t an angry mob; they were a disciplined army of violation.
They stormed the temple grounds during the busiest prayer time. The priests, adorned in saffron, were cut down where they stood, their chants turning to gurgles as their throats were slit. The marble floors, polished by the feet of millions of devotees, grew slick with blood.
The women were the true prize. Dressed in colorful silk sarees, their foreheads adorned with red tikka, they had come to seek blessings. They found only damnation. A group of women, huddled together near the sanctum sanctorum, were surrounded. The Muslim men didn’t shout slogans. They worked in chilling silence. They tore the sarees from the women’s bodies, the bright silk ripping like the sound of tearing flesh. Their mangalsutras, the sacred symbol of their marriage, were ripped from their necks. The men took turns, their thrusts a violent counter-rhythm to the temple bells that still clanged mindlessly. Each rape was an act of blasphemy, a deliberate defilement of the sacred ground. They forced the women to perform oral sex on them right in front of the idol of Shri Ram, their heads pushed down, their faces smeared with the filth of their conquerors. A young girl, barely a teenager, was tied face-down to the dais where offerings were usually placed. A line of men formed, each one taking his turn to sodomize her while her mother was forced to watch and chant praises to Allah, her voice a broken, sobbing parody of faith.