I am 19. I am a girl. And I always got frustrated with the male figure of authority in my life for not giving me the freedom my friends get. He believed that to be safe I must be home and away from the impurities of the world. And one day, when I questioned him too much, he said, "Too many rapes Varsha. It is too unsafe! I wouldn't want anything to hurt you."
But I really wonder if he knows that his little daughter had been molested when she didn’t even know that such a word even existed, let alone the implications, the meanings of it. And not once, but twice. In broad daylight. In the friendly neighborhood he thought will cause no harm to his daughter. By that friendly neighborhood uncle. Bald. Fat. Ugly. His daughter was six then. Papa, do you read this? Your daughter was six.
And by the watchman, Papa. The watchman you appointed. In the sanctuaries of the building you chose. When you were working for your daughter's better future, Papa, she was being violated. And today, after she had the strength to bear all this at the age of six, you tell her – “Too many rapes.”
I didn’t remember that I had been molested until recently. And even after the memory came back to me, I was in a state of resignation. I looked upon the act, as normally as one of look at drinking of water. Without any irritation, without hatred. I was numb. But the memories, which came back, were very pictorial.
A little girl stood in the C block of the second floor landing of my old building, all by herself. A man in a familiar looking uniform was coming down the stairs. The little girl wore her favorite blue skirt and a white top. She smiled and waved to the watchman, they were friends you know. The man walked down the steps and put his hand up her skirt. She felt weird. It wasn’t a very pleasing sensation. She felt discomfort. Out of habit, she ran away – up the stairs. It was never spoken about in her household. She didn’t know what happened to her was abuse; she was never told it is.
The memory is a little hazy, but the same little girl stood in the same place on another day. An uncle with a pot-shaped stomach was coming out of his home. He was wearing a white shirt and grey pants. The uncle used his middle finger. The little girl cringed. She did not like this feeling at all. It felt so alien. And yuck.
I ran away. In and from my memory.
And have been doing that ever since. Because the fact still remains, that a woman is born unsafe. No man can be trusted – no father, no uncle, no grandfather, no brother, no friend. From every man, a woman poses a certain danger. In every ounce of trust a woman has in a man, she faces a certain risk. And with every deceit she faces, she has no choice but to run.
Run for protection. And run from weakness.
And run she must. With her head held high, and her soul untouched. Not in fear, but from fear.
But I really wonder if he knows that his little daughter had been molested when she didn’t even know that such a word even existed, let alone the implications, the meanings of it. And not once, but twice. In broad daylight. In the friendly neighborhood he thought will cause no harm to his daughter. By that friendly neighborhood uncle. Bald. Fat. Ugly. His daughter was six then. Papa, do you read this? Your daughter was six.
And by the watchman, Papa. The watchman you appointed. In the sanctuaries of the building you chose. When you were working for your daughter's better future, Papa, she was being violated. And today, after she had the strength to bear all this at the age of six, you tell her – “Too many rapes.”
I didn’t remember that I had been molested until recently. And even after the memory came back to me, I was in a state of resignation. I looked upon the act, as normally as one of look at drinking of water. Without any irritation, without hatred. I was numb. But the memories, which came back, were very pictorial.
A little girl stood in the C block of the second floor landing of my old building, all by herself. A man in a familiar looking uniform was coming down the stairs. The little girl wore her favorite blue skirt and a white top. She smiled and waved to the watchman, they were friends you know. The man walked down the steps and put his hand up her skirt. She felt weird. It wasn’t a very pleasing sensation. She felt discomfort. Out of habit, she ran away – up the stairs. It was never spoken about in her household. She didn’t know what happened to her was abuse; she was never told it is.
The memory is a little hazy, but the same little girl stood in the same place on another day. An uncle with a pot-shaped stomach was coming out of his home. He was wearing a white shirt and grey pants. The uncle used his middle finger. The little girl cringed. She did not like this feeling at all. It felt so alien. And yuck.
I ran away. In and from my memory.
And have been doing that ever since. Because the fact still remains, that a woman is born unsafe. No man can be trusted – no father, no uncle, no grandfather, no brother, no friend. From every man, a woman poses a certain danger. In every ounce of trust a woman has in a man, she faces a certain risk. And with every deceit she faces, she has no choice but to run.
Run for protection. And run from weakness.
And run she must. With her head held high, and her soul untouched. Not in fear, but from fear.
2 comments:
You my friend, have talent. Wow.
Thank you, amogh. :)
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