In the cold room

Dear Prashant<>,

I’m writing to you again. It may be a bit impulsive to mail you but if you are reading this…

The floor, yes! I’m sitting on the floor. The room is cold. The lights are switched off. The speakers are singing beautiful melancholic lyrics interweaved with the sound of a sad mouthorgan. It’s not what nonsense the voices are saying but what the voices are feeling. And true! The voices are sad. The cold room itself is lamenting its misery by touching me on the floor. It has a painfully cold story. I want to get up but somehow I feel connected, I might be gifting it equal amount of cold stinging stories back. I’m sad.

“Try distracting yourself!” She had suggested the other day. “When I’m sad, I sketch!”  She holds an important place in me. Thankfully I never told her.

Not that I have never tried it but my hands are sad too. They resist being bothered. All I can do is, write, but that as well is not helping. Books? No! Walk? No! Music? No! Movies? No! Please no! Nothing’s helping!

I want someone to hear me. But I am unbearably alone. Trust issues! I have trust issues. I am slightly paranoiac as well. I don’t want anyone to enter my shell, still, I am human, and I’m alive, I breath and something in me surely beats. It yearns to be heard.

“Pain demands to be felt.”

Try visualizing me! A man in a dark room, kept like a heap of flesh on the floor, dead face wearing a macabre expression, scribbling the diary in the only light seeping into the room through the curtains, some sad artist singing ‘blues’ with mouthorgan and violin in the background.

 So many contacts on my phone! I have scrolled it thrice but have called none. I’m sure no one would want to hear me, more importantly; I do not want to talk to anyone. Often it comes to me as a sudden realization that I am surrounded by loads of people and yet I am alone. Am I sounding needy, vulnerable and desperate? Oh yes! I am! 

“You are so vulnerable in your writings! How can anyone share his vulnerability?” She would say.

I did not reply her, so here goes the truth. My pen is naked! It is justified for it to be a slut and to let go off its wildest dirtiest fantasies in the most shameless way. It does sing the melody of my vulnerability at times, and I let it, for I know; it does lie at times, but never pretends. 

Yours truly,



I might survive this pang, I might survive the next pang, might survive  yet another fit…

But how many times do I survive, till I survive?

A Girl Writes…

24thNov. 2016, 0500 IST

Why do you look up at me in disgust? Why do your eyes call me abhor-able? What has made me so different from you? Is it the prize of what they did? Your eyes had a twinkle in them when I was around, why did you let disgust and hatred replace it? How did all the love and pampering disappear for me with the so called “wrong” which you think I committed?

“Maa” what makes you taunt me for the whole day since then? Papa I was your good girl, your honor, wasn’t I? I was a thing you proudly bragged about. How can an act, which I even did not commit, make you limit me within the threshold of the house? Brother you wanted me to be a pilot one day, it was your dream. It was you who taught me the worth of education, women emaciation and empowerment, terms which lay like only big philosophies. Where did the idea vanish? Your eyes reflect vengeance, desperation and hatred today. Why do you call your beloved rakhi girl a “filth”? Why are you looking for groom? I am just 19.  How come just twenty minutes change my name form sister to burden? How did you agree to pay such a huge dowry? Why did you let the circumstances change your ideals?

Oh my friends, am I not worthy enough to join you to parties? Does that cataclysmic change snatch my rights to live? Why do I have to hear my relative whisper on my back and look at me as if I am the mud of the pond?  Why do I have to drape myself in a shawl when I go out? What do I try to cover, what do I drape and more importantly from whom, they are all the same? It suffocates the life out of me.

Why do the lawyers and the police ask me a thousand times as to where I was touched, how was it done, what all they put in me, what all was I made to touch, why? How am I expected to explain them the pain I hold within? How do I articulate the way they crawled over y genitals like rain worms? Oh how I was name called by a swarm of bees digging in their painful stings all over me, parting me the pain of a thousand lives. How was it my mistake that I was caught in the goddamn traffic late night? Was it my mistake that the drunken monsters were horny or became horny seeing me or whatever? The auto driver was his mate, was that too my mistake? It must have been my mistake to be offered a drink and pornography by those erect whoremongers. I guess it was my mistake to scream and cry mincing in the intense pain as the screwdriver went in me, or when the beer bottle was shoved up my anus. I guess I was wrong in pushing one of the pervert beasts to death. It must have been my mistake that they filmed by body and their acts under the flash. I was wrong walking back home in tatters, when nobody came to help me as I lay mincing on the pavement in pain that cold raining night. I guess I was wrong in telling my parents. I must have been wrong at visiting the police station too. It would have been better if they killed me after the rape.

I guess I was wrong being born a girl!