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Please tell me the answer, oh my dear !!!

I wish I knew the answer
To the problem that lay ahead,
I didn't, and stared at the wall plaster,
Following the ants in their parade.

The board was black
Resembling the moonless night,
I gazed at the nearby rack,
And kept trying with all my might.

The chalk dust posed a threat,
To my reputation that was at stake,
The questions that shone bright in white,
Made a mockery of my current plight.

I scratched my head,
And chewed my pen,
Nowhere did it lead,
And I was now a slaughtered hen.

The death knell rang loud and clear,
Please tell me the answer, oh my dear !!!
All in vain, the invigilator took my paper away,
And she laughed at the blank sheet, to my utter dismay.

Poison Love

The candles refused to burn tonight,
Play with me till our passions ignite,
Not a moment to lose, nor no time to waste,
Let us proceed, though with minimal of haste.

I have waited for this hour throughout,
Since the time I saw you, I dreamt us making out,
The carnal desire finally took me over,
This is my place, but I am lost forever.

Love or lust, I couldn't differentiate,
Who the hell cares, it's all my fate,
Lucky me that I have you in my arm,
I will love you until the ice melts warm.

Pigs sweat, and so do I,
The animal in me makes you shy,
I hold you up, and hug you tight,
How lovely it seems, it feels so right.

We lie down together, you by my side,
Your lifeless body silent with pride,
I look at you and tears fill my eye,
Why couldn't you do this when you were alive?

The lover in me you did refuse,
What problem was there had you been my muse?
You should have let me perform my art,
And then had tasted the magic in parts.

Relenting is futile now,
In absence of soul, your body still looks wow,
Painful it was to steal your life,
Bitch you deserved it, you failed as a wife.

The venom had been a faithful servant,
A resolution so natural you couldn't prevent,
Your heart paused, but my beat began,
Every night I will savor you again and again.

You stare at me with long lost gaze,
I kiss your lips and go down the maze,
Picking you up, I place you in,
The coffin I close, will unlock when I am keen.

Nandu

I was in my bedroom, studying for the upcoming Higher Secondary exams, when the phone rang. It was 6 o’ clock in the evening, and I was alone at home. I picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello. May I speak to Ranjan Babu?”

The voice was that of a female. It sounded kind and cordial, a bit familiar, but I was not able to identify it. Somehow deep within me I was having the impression that this caller was some one I know. Yet my memory seemed to have got clogged with all these studies.

“Baba is not at home right now. May I know who am I speaking to?”

“You know me very well beta. Try to use your brains and you will realize who I am. Can you tell me when Ranjan Babu will return?”

“I am not sure, but he will be back by seven. But who are….”

Before I could again ask her for her identity, the line went dead.

This infuriated me. I didn’t like challenges. I knew Baba would chide me for shying away from mysteries and challenging stuffs, yet I couldn’t accept the fact that I was different. I had different likes and dislikes, well suited to a normal teenage boy in 2010. Gone were the days of traveling to different locales to unravel secret hideouts, and to solve mysterious cases. Baba narrated me several of his adventures which he, along with Felu Jethu and Jatayu Jethu, had undertaken. They were thrilling, but come on, you can’t expect me to do the same. There were more important things in life than to travel to Darjeeling and Gangtok to find a missing suitcase.

However, the mysterious phone call that I received today somehow managed to shake my belief. I was eager to know who the caller was, and why she didn’t tell me her name. There could be numerous reasons for that. Maybe she was one of my school teachers who wanted to let Baba know about my progress (or rather the lack of it) in class. I was not a bad student, but being the son of the great Tapesh Ranjan and the nephew of greater Prodosh Chandra Mitter, others expected more out of me. I try to give my best (not my best actually, but still I study for 6 hours a day), but the “best” always eludes me.

Baba promised to buy me a motor bike if I pass my Higher Secondary with a minimum of ninety per cent marks. Now marks don’t hang in trees, you have to work hard for it. I was a bit lazy, again a stark contrast to my father, and would have been contented with just a seventy in the aggregate. However, the temptation of a brand new Hero Honda was too difficult to resist. I had vowed instantly that I would score nothing less than ninety.

Hence, I have to study real hard.

I tried to shoo away the mysterious phone call from my mind. Closing my eyes, I took several deep breaths, yet the image of the invisible lady kept lurking in the dark world that I created. She was wearing a white sari, and her hair was flowing over her face, masking her face. She was calling my name “Paritosh, Paritosh” in a shrill whisper, and was signaling me to come near her. I moved ahead and a gust of wind blew her hair not only from her face but also from her head. She was wearing a wig over her bald head. Her tongue rolled out and it started speeding towards my direction rapidly. It was too horrifying. I shouted with all my strength.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

“What happened Nandu babu? Did you see a bad dream?”

I opened my eyes to see Srikant shaking my frame to raise me out of this stupor. Srikant was the son of our earlier cook Srinath, who had grown quite old now and was resting in his village at Behrampore. Was this all a day dream? Didn’t I receive any phone call? Was there no mysterious lady on the other end? I was relieved.

After convincing Srikant that I was fine and that it was only a bad dream, I got down to my books. Srikant went to the kitchen to resume his cooking when the telephone rang again. This time it sent a chill through my entire body. Was the dream not a dream? Did everything happen for real? Or was I still part of the nightmare? Nothing was definite. There were no answers, only strange unobvious questions that filled my brain.

I tried to console myself that this was probably a call from Baba, indicating that he will be late, or from Maa, as she had not yet called today. Maa had made a point to call me twice daily since the day she landed Pune. She was there to visit my Didi who recently got married to an IIM + IIT combo pack Pardon me for saying this so brusquely, but don’t the double degree sound respectful?

Anyways, the phone was still ringing, waiting for me to answer. Like a long lost lover it was drawing me towards itself. Finally, I picked up the receiver.

“He…Hello,” my voice shook.

“May I speak to Ranjan Babu?” it was the same voice.

“Baba is not at home right now. Please call later,” I spoke hurriedly and was about to disconnect the call, when suddenly she retorted “Wait!!!”

My blood froze, honestly. The voice, though that of a lady was so harsh, that it pricked my whole body and hair rose on ends.

“Who are you?” I tried to muster my courage, but my lame attempt was evident, as the strange voice started laughing.

“Ha ha ha. You have failed to identify me son. I do not want to speak to your father. I want you. There is a bond so deep among us that it transcends all boundaries. It’s deeper than the deepest ocean. Do you know what the deepest ocean in the world is?”

I didn’t know. I knew there were five oceans – Atlantic, Arctic, Indian, Pacific and Southern, but who cared which among them was the deepest. I had read it somewhere, perhaps in Geography in my junior classes, but I was still not sure of the answer.

“Is it Indian?” I tried to shot an arrow in the dark, but unfortunately it fell down flat.

“Wrong!!! The deepest is Pacific. Is this what you learn in school? I knew this world is not fit for you. You belong to a different world, you belong to me. I will make you a proper man. You are my son after all. I will take you with me now. Ha ha ha.”

The laugh was horrible. It sounded ghostly and evil. Even in this terrifying moment, my mind drifted to the cartoons I saw in my childhood. I was now able to relate the lady’s laugh to that of Skeletor, the villain in the He-Man series.

I knew I had to focus. I had to be brave. Whoever this was, she was definitely trying to frighten me. How can she say that I am her son when I don’t even know her?

“What are you thinking beta? I am your real mother. You were born as my son five hundred years ago, when fate played a cruel trick on us, and we departed. Didn’t u read about your father and uncle’s adventure in Sonar Kella? Rebirths do happen, and we are the living proof of that. I am now coming to pick you up. Mother and son will be reunited at last.”

With a click, the line went dead.

Fear turned to panic. What if that mad lady was really serious? What if she was coming to pick me up? I had to be alert. I was not alone; Srikant was there with me in the house. I walked into the kitchen to warn him about the impending danger, but he was no where to be seen. I searched the guest room, he was not there. I looked into Baba’s room, behind his book shelves filled with volumes of Sherlock Holmes adventure, and Srikant was not even there. I went through the other rooms as well, and to my horror, I realized that I was all alone in the house.

Suddenly the doorbell rang, and my body froze in fear. I became numb. My legs turned heavy, and I found it difficult to walk. The door bell kept on buzzing, and my eyes remained fixed on the gate.

“Open the door beta, I am here to take you with me,” it was the same shrill voice of the lady that I had heard.

“What do you want? Please go away,” my voice sounded completely different, and I wasn’t even sure if it was audible.

“Isn’t it your birthday today beta? Can’t a mom gift her only son by taking him away with him to their old home?”

How did she know about my birthday? It was eerie.

“I do not want to go. Please leave me and go. Go away please.” I pleaded.

I knew I had nowhere to run. There was only one exit from this house, which was the main gate, where that mysterious lady was standing. I had to wait for my father’s arrival. I gulped my fear, and waited, and waited.

Suddenly, the door knob rotated, and the door opened with a sudden flick. This was it. I had nowhere to go now. What will she do to me? Will she abduct me and demand ransom from baba, or will she simply take me away, never to return. I preferred the first option. Strange is the way how human mind function. When left with no choice, we simply try to adapt to the rough weather.

The door opened slowly, and what I saw left me aghast.

Two pair of legs entered through the door. The first one was wearing a white pajama, with a grey kurta on top. The second person was wearing jeans and a collared full sleeve shirt.

Suddenly the lady’s voice rang “Happy Birthday beta,” and to my wonder, it was from Felu Jethu’s lips. Felu Jethu looked dashing in his kurta pajama, while Baba, standing beside him in jeans and shirt, was clapping in delight.

I knew Felu Jethu could change his voice at will, but a live demonstration of this sort was not expected. Anyways, all’s well that ends well. Baba hugged me and said “We wanted to give you a surprise. Happy Birthday Nandu Beta.”

I was happy. My friends started pouring from the open door. They brought gifts for me, wishing me for the day as well as the upcoming exams. Felu Jethu gifted me a bound volume of Agatha Christie’s Detective series. However, the biggest surprise of the day was yet to be unraveled.

Baba took me aside and said “I have something for you. Go out and check for yourself.”

I went out and what I saw drew my breath away. It was a black Hero Honda bike. Baba put a hand on my shoulder from behind and said, “This is a birthday gift from me. I hope you liked it.”

Liked it? I just loved it. I thanked him innumerable times, and stood there gazing at the beauty. Baba had gone back in, and I too followed him to seek his permission to ride this bike for five minutes. I knew it was my party, and I had to be present as a good host, but I guess going away for five minutes will do now harm to one’s reputation as an amiable host. I managed to convince Baba, and jumping in joy, I started my bike.

This was turning out to be the best birthday of my life. First the fright, then came delight. I was amazed by Felu Jethu’s abilities to mimic in different voices. I knew he had other talents as well. I promised silently to read all the stories that Baba had noted down regarding their adventures.

My bike was flying on the road now, and I was elated. After going a certain distance, the engine stopped suddenly, and the bike came to a standstill. I tried to start it, but it simply refused arrogantly. I got down in quest for help. The streets were vacant, barring a few stray dogs. A few feet away I saw a woman sitting down on the floor, probably searching something. She was wearing a black sari, and her back was facing me.

I knew I had to help her, before asking for her help in return in finding a suitable person who can help me to start my bike. I sat down beside her, and asked “Is there something that you are looking for, Auntie?”

She turned towards me, and a mild gust of wind blew her hair on her face. The first words she spoke to me were, “You are my son. I have found you at last.”

I ran, leaving my bike behind.

THE END

Lost

Tomorrow when you wake up,

You won't find me near,

Will you then call out my name?

Or just forget me dear?

Tomorrow when you wake up,

The sun will shine high,

The birds singing merrily,

Look how far away they fly.

The warm breeze will embrace you,

Caressing your long hair,

You won't miss me then,

But will that be fair?

I am not a writer,

Nor am I a poet,

And in utter despair,

Look how I have become quite.

Tomorrow when you wake up,

And if you really don't see me near,

Please try to find me,

'Cause I will be waiting for you somewhere, my dear !!!

Illusion

Her enigmatic smile robbed me of my sorrows, filling me with a desire so powerful that I failed to comprehend. It was a desire to smile, to be happy and enjoy what life has to offer. It was a desire to be thankful for what I have got, and patiently wait for what I haven't. It was a desire to wish, a desire to dream, a desire to love.

Her dignity mystified me, while her beauty left me bewildered. Was she a nymph from the underworld, dressed in its finest attire and adopting a manner so delicate that it can lure the innocent men into the path of destruction? Or was she a messenger of God, an angel of peace and serenity, drowning itself in my eyes and taking over my heart? But no, she was a mere mortal, a just human, with all the morbid characteristics of the mortal self, and yet managing to rise above the savagery and drudgery of the earthly hardships to shine like a Princess of the Icy Peaks.

She was an illusion, not a vision, but a dream that I saw only in flashes. It was tough to relate her to the sour realities of life; she was just a cruel figment of my imagination.

In an instance she was gone.

I looked here and there, craned my neck sideways. Even a minute glimpse of her would be satisfying. My eyes pierced the corners of the vast auditorium, searching for the silken robe, the smile that lit the fire, and the eyes that had passion flowing out of it. Her voice still rang in my ears, but the figure was no more there. I tried to draw her out from the strength of my memory, but it seemed vague, the picture that I managed to re-construct was full of misty ideas, cluttering the vacancies in my heart, diluting the love that was dying to find a way out.

Silence. And then there was a loud roar. A roar of applause. The audiences rose from their seat, preparing to leave. The elderly couple beside me moved out happily, chatting away the beauty of the play that they seemed to enjoy. A few minutes passed, and I was the only one left behind. The lights above grew dimmer, the shadows disappeared, and I started towards the exit gate.

I reached the exit, and looked back instinctively towards the stage where the play was enacted, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I could see nothing. The lights had been turned off by now. But I felt her soft touch leading me towards the brightness of the day, away from the monotonicity and darkness of the night.

Frustration

Frustration is a common word for everybody. We are all irritated, unhappy regarding what we have. We aspire for more, but we do not define that "more". We seek happiness, but it just strikes us like a flash a lightening, then here, but now gone.

Cope with the pressure 'cause there is no other escape route. You have to find the happiness and the pleasantries amongst this thick mist, that's engulfing your mind in its maze of darkness and gloom.

The only way to cope with frustration is to avoid it. that's th best medicine. Try lightening your room bright 'cause its dark and blind outside.

You are sad - the reason is you have to work on a project on Sunday even though you are sick, or probably because you have missed a promotion, or have received a thorough chiding from the senior management. You are complaining against this, not knowing the extremities and a hardship that others can face. You at least get paid for to endure this pain, the unfortunate lot barely manage a penny even after hours of putting in their excruciating efforts.

Have you ever tried to look in the face of a street urchin, imploring the dark alleys of poverty and shame, trying to pick up every pebble and masking them as his wealth? Do you realize they being poor is no fault of theirs? They are mere pawns in the cruel game of fate. Did you try looking into the eyes of the old security guard, sitting alone in a half-broken plastic chair at the gate of a mansion, trying to decipher the meaning of his existence in the cold wintry night. they stay awake, fighting the devils of the night, in cold and heat, so that the rest sleep in peace. Yet how much do they get in return? And you call yourself frustrated?

Stop looking at the mirror in your room, and try to delve deeper in the world of glass that's beyond the horizon, where the sun never rises, the stars never twinkle, and the clouds never leave the valley, leaving beneath a dead trail of penury and grievances, a land of failure and pessimism.

You are lucky to have been born in light. Try being happy, 'cause you have no idea how frightening darkness can be.

A Salute to the Very Very Special Laxman

I remember returning from school after my Class X board exam, way back in 2001, pondering over the answers I had written to the rather incomprehensible questions, and trying to calculate the approximate marks that I would obtain out of all this labor. The March sun was shining brightly, when I suddenly heard the words "Laxman scored a double century, Dravid a century." I couldn't believe my ears. This was in regards to the 2nd Test Match being played between India and Australia at the Eden Garden Stadium, Kolkata. India had lost the first Test, which was quite expected as the Aussies had the "Invincible" tag around their neck. We were expected to lose the second test again, as its too unrealistic to expect victory after being asked to follow-on. And then the miracle happened.

India won the 2nd Test, Laxman scoring a mammoth 281.

Till this happened, Laxman to me was just another Indian batsman, who sometimes opened the innings, scored 30 or 40, and then gave his wicket away to some rash shot. He was always regarded as a stylish stroke player, but never a match winner. Moreover, critics had always slammed him for lack of proper technique and had regarded him unsuitable for Test Matches. He was always a run-getter in the domestic circuit, but he failed to get big scores in the International Arena.

This, however, changed with that historic epic innings.

Almost a decade has passed since then, but Laxman's role in the team hasn't changed. He is still the savior when the team is in dire strait. You expect Sachin, Sehwag and Gambhir to blast centuries when the pitch is conducive for batting. However, when your top batsmen are back to the pavilion with not even a 100 on board. you will expect Laxman to stay on with the tail-enders, and provide a match-saving innings. He may not be technically correct like Dravid, nor he is a century maker like Tendulkar, and neither is he as explosive as Sehwag, but he is one player India will always find tough to replace.

After all, saviors are not born everyday.

Myriad Grains

Myriad Grains. Grains those lie low in the oceans, beyond the depth of vast expanses of water, hiding from the mob. Grains those lie beyond our foot, brushing the rough skin of beach people, travelers and nomadic creatures. Grains those are there in the air, flowing via the thick rays of sunlight, through open windows in the early hours of the day, signaling with them the dawn of a new era, an era marked by hope and ambition. A day heralds that brings with it unparallel enthusiasm, zeal and the desire to succeed. Yet the grains lie low, far away from the crowd, in their own desolate world, uncharted and desolately safe.

High up in the sky my gaze goes, and I am blinded by a sudden gust of wind. I rub my eyes in pain; confusion and anger slowly rising in my body, traversing the entire length of my vast torso, till it finally rests on the back of my mind. Dust winds are frequent in this part of the country, and are at their mischievous best at dusk. I standing on the beach, with my fists rolling over my eyeballs, perfectly resembled one of the monkeys of The Father of Our Nation, which symbolized “do not see bad.” However, I was in no mood to crack jokes on my own helplessness. Grains of sands, though tiny, can make you cry, as I realized now.

My vision blurred as water started flooding my eyes, in pain, despair and helplessness. I tried to look through the tiny hole created by the joints of my fingers, and my vision stuck on a stray dog barking aimlessly at the roaring waves. Towards another side of the sprawling beach, I could see a couple getting cozy in the sand, pretty oblivious to the prying eyes that pierced through them. Finally, after much rubbing, I was able to vanquish the last bit of dust grain that had invaded my eyes. My vision gradually cleared, and the perception of view that I had earlier, changed. The dog was not barking at the waves. Rather it was howling at an emaciated human body that had some how been washed to the shore by the cruel waters. I stepped ahead and looked down straight at the decaying mass. It was withered, like a dead rose crushed on the roads under the wheels of a speeding truck.

It started to rain. However, I was in no mood to return. I looked around, trying to fathom and decipher more meaning in this unspoken land. The clouds billowed, attempting to shake me off, but I was not willing to run away. The dog was now galloping ahead in full speed, perhaps too scared of being gobbled up by the deathly combination of rain and sea. I moved in the direction of the cozy couples, but they were gone. Gone were the people surrounding them, and also gone were the other passers by who were aimlessly strolling the beach. I looked up at the sky, and it was dark. The rain had suddenly stopped, making a mockery of my derailed condition. There was no moon, no star, just a thin veil high up in the horizon, which engulfed the entire beauty of the night. Somewhere far I heard the distant chatter of monkeys, probably enjoying a hearty meal with their families, reminding me of the loneliness that I was dwelling in. I wandered in the dark, blindfolded by a blackness that I was unable to get rid off.

My legs slipped and I fell in the sea. Sea not of water, but of sands, distant sands that looked so close now. I didn’t realize when I had become a part of them. The transformation had come too soon, too fast to be true. I felt relaxed, my mind finally gaining its composure, attaining a state of rest. There was no fear, no worry, no greed, no desire, no anxiousness, just a distant light that peered through the darkness, commanding me to embrace its formless structure. It promised me a new world, a better world, where dog won’t drag out decayed bodies from water, where people wont become animals for their little greed and hunger. It promised me a new territory where I would rule according to my wish, and I pledged to fulfill the expectations that it had on me. Slowly it asked me to close my eyes. I obeyed, and in a fraction of second, had become a grain. A Grain among Myriad Grains.

I have not been taught to complain. I can only tolerate.

I have not been taught to complain. I can only tolerate.

I unbuttoned my blouse and looked at the mirror. It was me, bruised and battered. My pale skin was marked with purple scratches, my eyes were sweltering red. Red because of the crying I had to go through. Well it had become a daily routine now. I was raped, again.

I looked into the closet and took out the first aid box, my only companion these days. It contained a roll of cotton, a Dettol bottle and few pills. I soaked a small amount of cotton with Dettol and applied it on the first mark on my chest. Dettol burns, and my soul burnt too.

I needed a good bath. In two hours time my husband would come home for lunch. I had to be presentable. I love him, a lot. He is my protector, my savior, the man who has given me a new surname, along with food and shelter, the man who is supposed to be my Lord of worship. He is the man who has every right on me. He can do whatever he wants to me; after all I am his wife. He is the stronger species, I am the weaker one.

Last night I resisted. I was punished. My husband raped me. I deserved it, ‘cause I am a woman.

I have not been taught to complain. I can only tolerate.

15 Years Ago

I was 12 years old.

While returning from school, I boarded an auto rickshaw.

Two men were already sitting in the back seat of the auto rickshaw. The bald uncle whispered something to the younger uncle. The younger uncle got out and let me in. I think they let me in because I was a small girl, and sitting in the corner of an auto rickshaw can be dangerous at times, with vehicles passing by you at full speed.

I sat in-between, with the younger uncle sitting on my left and the bald one on my right.

I owed them a thank for their gentleness.

As soon as the auto rickshaw started, something happened. I didn’t know what and why, but something wrong seemed to be happening.

Both the uncles pressed closer to me. The younger uncle was constantly trying to take out something from his right trouser pocket, but it seemed he was not able to find it. He kept on searching frantically, his fingers brushing against my waist, quickly creeping to the upper part of my body. The bald uncle stretched out his arms, his fingers touching my thigh.

I sat stiff. I was too frightened to react.

When I returned home, I told mom. She said “Try not to get close to men, and don’t think of such things. It will corrupt your innocent mind. Forget and ignore these. You are a girl, you have to face these. Concentrate on studies. Anyways, you should be more careful, you are growing up.”

Two days later, I woke up with blood sticking on my leg.

My mom saw this and smiled “Don’t worry, its normal. You are a grown up girl now. We will go to the chemist in the evening”

I couldn’t understand then what the relation between “blood in leg” and “growing up” was.

I understand it now. The more you grow, the more blood mark you have on your body. I counted 27 such marks on my body in the mirror today.

I am 27 years old. I don’t want to grow any more. It hurts.

10 Years Ago

I met Raj in the school canteen.

He was a cute guy. He had a cracking voice, but that would change as he grew up. Guy’s life changes for better as they grow, but it’s just the reverse for a girl.

We were introduced by a common friend, and it was love at first sight. I liked his lean athletic frame, those bright eyes that spoke a lot, but most of all, it was his mischievous smile that bowled me. The friendly canteen gossip soon turned into outings with common friends, and subsequently to romantic dates.

It was on one such date that he held my hand. It was an electrifying sensation, and felt different. I had never felt the same before. It was uncomfortable too, didn’t know why, and so I quickly freed my hand from his grasp.

The next day he again held my hand. I didn’t resist this time. I had started to love his warm presence. He made me feel like a girl.

Time flew. Our relationships flourished, and love augmented by leaps and bounds. Those were the happiest days of my life. We kissed a couple of times, at school toilets, in empty classrooms, and behind thick bushes in desolate parks.

Then one day I committed a mistake. I made Raj angry.

We were sitting in a park, kissing each other. Suddenly his hands started moving down from my neck, towards my chest. I panicked and my heart beat started racing. I got frightened. I had not anticipated this so quickly.

I moved back.

Raj tried to persuade me a lot, that he will just touch me; he won’t do me any harm.

I said “I am not prepared for this now, Raj. Please try to understand. Let’s not do it before marriage.”

As always, I realized I was wrong. After all, how can the fairer sex ever be correct? We are supposed to be slaves of men, to obey all their orders. We are not allowed to obey our heart and mind. We are not allowed to think and feel.

I decided I would let him do whatever he wants the next day. The next day never came. We broke up. I loved Raj, but he loved my body.

5 Years Ago

I got a good job in a reputed software firm. It provided me a decent salary, and a designation that sounded good. But nothing changed really. Hungry men still stared at me as a prospective prey. I was still made to feel uncomfortable in public transports. My male colleagues talked dirty about me in hushed tone. I kept following what my mom said – to ignore these. It had become a part of my life now.

I learnt to cope with these day in and day out. I tried to think that everything was normal. But somewhere deep within me the pain and humiliation had formed a deep crater. A crater which I dreamt could be dissolved by the love of a man, whom I would marry. We would be a happy couple. I dreamt of giving birth to two boys. I wished I had no girls. I couldn’t see my girls facing the evil which I face.

Present Day

I got married a couple of years ago. The crater is still there, only it has grown bigger in size. The dreams that remained have been burnt to ashes. I am no longer a human; I am not supposed to live like one. I am a woman, a sex object, nothing more.

I love the festival of Durga Puja. Those 5 days my husband goes out partying with his friends. I don’t go. I love the solitude that I get. I remain at home and switch on the TV. I look at the different idols of Maa Durga and am mesmerized by her eternal beauty, the absolute power that she signifies. She appears to be so strong and dominating.

It surprises me. How can Maa Durga be so powerful even though she belongs to the fairer gender? Why is she worshipped by millions of men across the globe? Is this worship by men fake?

I don’t have any answer to these. I return back to the present time and prepare to take a bath. I love my husband. I can’t complain about being raped by him. I, being a woman, am born to endure, not to defy.

I have not been taught to complain. I can only tolerate.

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