Open Wound!

“You don’t talk to me!” She said.

“I don’t talk at nights.” I replied.

“Why? You sleep!”

“I am vulnerable at nights, like an open exposed fresh wound. I do not want anyone to caress it.”

“Why so?”

“Because I might like it.”


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!