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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