Yours Truly

I don’t remember what happened that day. When I try very hard to recollect, my mind conjures up some blurry images, some grainy snippets of a very long film I seem to have forgotten. A huge ceiling fan looming large over me, a pink frock with a lot of frills, a burning sensation in my abdomen, a white uniform. But what my memory has refused to erase is the distinct feeling of wanting to scream, but not being able to. Even now, in my dreams I sometimes see a hand with a wrist watch, clasping my mouth, stifling my cries, drowning me in an ocean. I get up startled, covered in sweat, and never sleep for the rest of the night. Mother says I was raped. On my fifth birthday.

I am Shubha, now fourteen years old.  We live in the chawls of Nalasopara. My father is a photograph hanging on the walls in the single room we have. My mother is a domestic help. My brother sells lemons and oranges in the local trains. I should have been married off by now. But mother needs five thousand rupees for my dowry, which, of course, she does not have. So here I am, an extra mouth to feed in an already starving family. Thankfully, I have joined her as a domestic help, and I might soon be an extra pair of hands as well. Poor though we are, we do have a television set, complete with a Tata Sky connection. My brother says he procured it from Jalla, a guy in the locality who sells cheap second hand stuff. I believe he stole it from somewhere. It is on this television set that I heard the word rape for the first time. And I realized that what mother tells me has happened to me, is wrong, that it is a crime.

That day, someone in Mumbai had been raped in the Shakti Mills compound. Everyone on the television was angry about it. Well dressed men and women were talking animatedly, exchanging sad glances, using wild gestures. Words like brutal, human rights, violation, crime, punishment, death were used all the time. I sat glued to the screen, my mind absorbing every detail, furiously trying to figure out if that was what had happened to me as well.

When mother returned from work, I asked her.

“Mother, when I was raped, was there a furor?”

“ No. Why?”

“I saw it on TV. People are weeping, protesting on the streets, lighting candles. Didn’t they do it for me?”

Mother did not bother to answer. She busied herself in rolling out the mat and making a bed for herself.

“Did the police come? Were the culprits caught?” I asked.

Visibly irritated, mother said, “What do you think you are, eh? Some laat sahib’s daughter?  This TV is eating your head. I will ask Ganesh to remove it now!”

Her outburst confused me even more. I decided to discuss this with Meena, my only friend in the locality. She was a couple of years younger to me, and worked as a daily wage laborer in some construction site.  As I went out of the door, I looked back at mother, hoping to see an expression of pain, of a hidden shroud of mystery. But all I saw was the usual grimace and frown she wears. My questions did not hit her to create a ripple of emotion. Probably it was ok to be raped? I hurried towards Meena’s home.

“Meena, do you think it is ok to be raped?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I saw it on TV today. They say it is wrong. I do not remember what exactly happened, but I think it was similar. But mother did not seem to care much”.

“I don’t know of right or wrong”, Meena looked sad, “but I’ll tell you a secret. Promise me you won’t tell anybody?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“You know that pot-bellied contractor whom we work for? The one who has pock marks all over his face? The other day he asked me to wait back. I thought he wanted to give me some extra work. But after everyone had left, he felt me all over, took me behind the brick kilns, and raped me. I screamed, I even scratched him on the face, but he slapped me hard and said that he had paid five hundred rupees to father in return for this, and if I did not let him ‘enjoy’, he would take the money back!”

“My god! Did you come back home and tell your father? He would have surely killed him! And your brothers? They would take his eyes out I am sure!”

Meena  laughed, “Quite the contrary.  For quite some time I could not move. My entire body was aching and there was blood on my dress. After I somehow managed to limp back home, I saw them all waiting anxiously for me outside the house. At first I thought they were worried. But as soon as they saw me, they all went inside, their heads hung low, eyes downcast, except mother, who, I realized, was silently weeping. She took me inside, washed me, put on me a fresh dress, served me warm food, and cautioned me not to share this incident with anyone. That day, for the first time in my life, I tasted rice pudding. But unfortunately my mouth was bitter and it tasted like bile. If mother makes it again someday, I will surely make up this time”.

“You did not protest?”

“Like you, I did not know it was wrong. If parents are asking us to do it, it must be right. I have been doing it regularly now. Yes, it pains badly and I feel nauseated at the very thought of it, but father says that with all this money he will be able to repair the roof before monsoons. No more sleeping in a puddle”.

“But everyone is saying it is wrong and the culprits should be hanged”.

“Who everyone? The ones you see on TV? Have you ever seen them here? Do they give you food when you go to bed hungry? Go ask them for work, and they will bully you with all kinds of questions like ration card, police registration, employer’s reference. They don’t trust us. We are poor. We are the ones who do them wrong.  Rapists are supposed to thrive here, not rape victims! If we told them we have been raped, they would probably laugh their heads off”.

“But that does not take away the heinousness of the crime! I was very small then so I don’t remember the details. But I am sure it must have been gory. And I still get nightmares! Whoever did it to me must be punished!”

“Yes.  They should be hanged by their testicles. But do you know who they are? Even if you did, what if your father had sold you off to them? What if he is a member of the local mafia gang?”

I did not argue further. My head was spinning. I walked towards home.

“Be careful’, Meena called out, “and don’t think too much”.

Why shouldn't I? Am I not a citizen of this country? Those men on TV were talking about laws. Does it not apply to me? Yes, I come from the poor strata of the society. But does that take away my dignity of being a woman? When you civilized folks unite together in a protest march, do you ever think about me? About the likes of me? Staying under tarpaulin sheets barely managing to earn four square meals a day, you treat me as an untouchable. But when the carnal instinct in you arises, this is the very untouchable body you shred down to pieces, mark your animal footprints with.

Around me, rape is so common that we ourselves have stopped considering it as a crime. You, always on television with your strong viewpoints, in your starched shirt and tailored coat, with your impeccable English vocabulary, do you know me? Who will come to my rescue? I am Shubha. I am Meena. I am the hawker girl you shoo away when I board your first class compartment, I am the flower girl who taps at your window every morning begging you to take my roses, I am the eunuch who ‘blesses’ you in the traffic signal, I am the domestic help who does your dirty linen every day. I don’t know the fancy terms you use. All I know is that I, too, am a woman, I am a human. And I have my rights. I don’t want to be raped either . It pains me as well. Even I die of this brutal act. I want to breed sons who know that rape is a crime, that torture against women is a crime.

Spare us a thought. Visit our slums. Not for distributing your NGO pamphlets, no. Educate us. Empower us. Yes, it will take years and years before we join the mainstream. But is it not time you start your humble efforts? Unless you do, ‘the plight of our country’, as you lovingly call it, will never improve.

Strange Are The Ways of Love

The doorbell rings. "Mamma returned from work", exclaims five-year old Gunugun, jumping with excitement. Jatin finishes typing the message on his mobile, gets up and opens the door. There, standing in front of him, is Seema, his thirty-year old wife, drenched in sweat, panting, exhausted, her hands full of grocery bags, looking everything but attractive. "Oh, they are so heavy. You should have given me a call. I would have come down & got them", Jatin says, almost immediately disappearing into the kitchen to dump the bags.  Seema smiles. In the twelve years of their marriage, she knows him well enough to understand that he doesn't mean an ounce of what he said. Another one of the politically correct responses for a dutiful husband. Before she can ponder on the thought, Gungun comes rushing into her arms, filling her heart with content and joy. For a few moments, Seema forgets about everything else in this world. The microwave goes off in a loud beep, and Jatin emerges from the kitchen, steaming cup of coffee in his hand. "Here, your coffee", he says, and places it on the table. No smiles are exchanged, no eyes are locked, no customary 'how was your day' is asked. It all seems to be a game of ticking the invisible checklist of dutifulness & responsibility.

Jatin returns to the spot on the sofa where he had been lying all this while, his eyes oscillating between the two screens, television & his mobile phone. He smiles at a message he has just received, prompt to type out a response. Gungun, her initial excitement having worn off, delves into her coloring books, and forgets about her surroundings. In the same room, Seema sits in the chair next to Jatin, watching a sports channel which does not interest her, eager to talk to Jatin, to tell him how her day went, to start a conversation. 

"What did you do after coming back from work?"  

"Nothing. Just the normal".

"Did you finish your lunch? How was it?"

"Ok".

"You know, I dealt with a new case today. Very interesting".

Jatin does not respond. Muttering something inaudible, he smiles, a far away look in his eyes. He has not heard what Seema just said. He is reliving some happy moment of which Seema is not a part. He chooses to shut her out.

She gives another try, "You think I should change my haristyle?"

"Your choice. Please don't ask me", he replies curtly.

Seema gets up, the fatigue and tiredness taking its toll. Of late, she finds herself totally unwanted in this household. Even in happy moments, Jatin praises her with statements like, "You do all the work and let me be a lazy husband", or, "You work so hard". She goes into the shower. As the cold water trickles down her head and on to her body, she weeps. What has become of her? How did she land herself in this mess? 

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Thirteen years ago, they had met, Seema and Jatin. He was unemployed, she was a bright student with a promising career. Unsure of his future, but absolutely sure of hers, they had embarked on a voyage of romance, and had sailed the world of fantasy and promise with rose-tinted glasses. They had engaged in furious discussions on all topics under the sun, satiating each other's emotional, physical and intellectual hunger. Oblivious to the heeds of their parents that they were a total mismatch, they married, and laughed at every one who dared to point out that they were so improbable together. The first few years were hunky dory, and then, with age, they matured, they settled, they started a family, and they changed.

Struggling hard to maintain a balance between her job, her baby and her household, Seema lost out on all her passions. Always keen to dress well, she wore whatever she could get hold of in the mornings, returning home late in the evening with all the wind blown out of her. An avid reader, well abreast of all current affairs, she did not get the time to touch the newspaper, except to fold it neatly and keep it in the rack. Her only reads were during her train travels to work and back. A mother now, she used up all her remaining energy to take care of her child. For Jatin, lest he should think she is neglecting him, she dutifully took care of all his  physical needs, whether or not she wanted it, and tried to ease out his burden as much as possible. All the while, Seema thought she is doing exactly what an ideal woman should do - sacrificing her life for the sake of her family, doing household chores, running errands, working, and taking care of the baby. She would yearn for the intellectual sessions she had with Jatin, often reminiscing the old days, but she always seemed to have her hands full.

A few years later years, after Gungun grew up and started school, when she approached her husband, she realized he had moved far away. He had changed. He no longer shared things with her. He dwelt in a world of his own, where Seema was just the old worn out armchair, where you like to sit and rock yourself to sleep, because its familiarity comforts you, which you would probably never replace, but which does not attract you any more.

The initial realization had shaken the ground beneath her feet, and she had cried herself dry every day at night, unable to understand how to deal with the matter.
"You don't love me anymore, do you?"
Initially, Jatin had been able to convince her that he did love her, that she was foolish enough to ask such questions, and that he just drew himself into a shell at times, nothing to worry about. But as days went past, her search for re-assurances were answered by the 'don't start it again now's, or, even worse, total ignorance, of her questions, of her tears, of her presence.

They hardly spent any time together, thanks to their odd working hours. But they had always found out ways to talk, to communicate, to spend quality moments together. Now, whatever odd hours they were under the same roof, Jatin would spend fingering either his mobile phone or the remote control, and Seema would spend it with Gungun. Restless, she would be anxious to start a conversation with him, but cringed inwardly every time she summoned his curt responses and blank stares. He would smile at the messages he received, but when he looked up to see Seema, his smile would fade & the serious look would re-appear.

Seema started remaining extremely unhappy, more so because she could not place a finger at the underlying reason of her distress. Jatin did everything a husband should do, and at the facade of their relationship everything was alright, to the extent that people might envy them for their prosperity and well-being. But her instincts told her he was moving away, that something was not right. Having lost all ways to communicate with him, she would take out her bitterness and frustration on every possible reason she could get, never short of mincing words and hurling insults. Jatin, on the other hand, was as composed as ever, maintaining his calm, making Seema feel like a patient with psychotic disorder. He would never initiate a fight himself, preferring to make a straight face and assume an air of annoyance if he was displeased with her. She, on the other hand, would fight with him for unnecessary reasons, unable to tell him exactly what she felt, at the same time feeling sure he knew exactly what she felt. To add to her remorse, Jatin would never react, and after every fight he would explain to her how she had reacted like a madman, how it was all her fault, how she overreacted. In short, her nerves were a wreck.

This took an immense toll on Seema's health. She became absent-minded, getting off at wrong stations, exiting through the wrong gates, forgetting to collect the change from shopkeepers. She felt extreme fatigue followed by a sudden rush of anxiety, a increased palpitation of heartbeats, edgy, always at the verge of tears.

One day, when Jatin was taking a bath, curiosity took the better of her, and she picked up his mobile phone. Preening through his messages, she realized that he was particularly close to a girl called Antara, and from the pictures she had posted, she looked like a girl in her early twenties. So she was right! There was someone else in his life. She decided to ask him.

For the first time in their married life, Jatin reacted. "Get lost", he screamed.
"No I will not. Tell me who she is".
"You pervert, you think I am sleeping with her? She is so much younger to me! She is like my sister!"
"Yes, right. You message your sister all throughout the day."
Everything fell in place like a jigsaw puzzle, why he looked lost and far away, why he always fiddled with the phone, why he talked to himself and smiled.
"Look, I am not having an illicit affair with her ok?"
"That is not the only form of infidelity. You do not necessarily have to sleep with somebody to cheat on your spouse. You share your emotional space, your time, and your thoughts, which belong to your wife, with someone else. What do you say to that?"
"Stop this bullshit philosophy of yours. Yes, I adore her. I like her. I enjoy having discussions with her. She has strong opinions on everything. She knows so much of current affairs. And you? I can't carry out a proper conversation with you without having a friction."
"Yes, right. After I wasted my whole life on you, left behind a prosperous career to raise your family, now I have become a shallow mediocre."
"Yes, you have. You bore me. There are limited topics we can talk about. And accept it, with age some things change. This is one of them."

And so, it had ended. For long nights, Seema had speculated a divorce, dreamt of starting her life anew, but the thoughts of Gungun had held her back. An only child, her parents already dead, she had no support to lean back on. And society? Yes, single mothers were not uncommon anymore, but the strong feelings of aversion had been only replaced  with an equally strong feeling of pity. Everyone would be interested in the break-up story, sounding the 'oohs' and 'aahs' at the correct places, only to go back to their group and sigh, "Poor girl", or "My God, so much shit happens with people, so depressing". Definitely not her destiny, Seema thought. She made up her mind. For the sake of her child, she will carry on.

At this delicate and fragile juncture of life, she met Ashutosh.

One day, while leaving office, she bumped into him at the lift. They were classmates in college, never exchanging anything more than pleasantries. But recently, he had joined the same company Seema worked in. Both delighted to find an old acquaintance, their friendship evolved almost as soon as they met, and Seema found a ready distraction. He made her laugh, discussed things with her, gave her all the attention and importance she craved for. He listened to her, argued with her, and  heard her out without ever judging whether she was right or wrong. In short, Ashutosh gave Seema everything she hopelessly wanted from Jatin. She felt beautiful again. She bought new clothes, applied kohl to her eyes, and looked forward to come to work. And the days, suddenly not unhappy any more, flew past.

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Standing under the shower, Seema suddenly shivers. She turns off the tap and stands upright. Silent, naked, thoughtful. Lying side by side, in front of her, are the scattered fragments of a once colorful relationship, and a relationship glistening with the rays of hope, smelling of the newness, brimming with life. She does not necessarily have to choose, both of them can be hers, one would nurse her wounds, the other would give her fresh wounds to heal. Or, she can get out of the shower, go straight to Jatin and tell him that it is all over.  No, she has not fallen in love with Ashutosh. But he has taught her to love herself again, to believe in her prowess, to believe that she is still loved by others, that someone still finds her attractive, and that she is still intelligent and bright. That is is something more than a mother. That she is a woman. But she cannot do either. Why? Because she still loves Jatin. She still believes that she can gather the pieces fallen apart, re-build the crumbling walls, and restore the faded colors of a beautiful life they had promised to give each other. Strange are the ways of love, they say.

"Mumma, how long will you take", screams Gungun, "come out fast, I finished my painting and I want you to give me a star!"
"Yes, two minutes dear", Seema smiles, grabs her bathrobe and steps out.

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