She sat there quietly by the little stream and listened.
She heard the rhythmic flow of the water stumbling over pebbles against the hard surface of the corner. She listened to the flow carefully until her thoughts drifted away; far far away.
She recalled the aroma of the hot coffee she made for him that morning. It had been a long night. The smell of the new paint in the apartment, the shampoo from her hair, her brewing thoughts: everything was fresh and new. She couldn’t have gotten a better life! At least, she thought so. She served the coffee in two zodiac sign mugs and woke him up to the coffee. About to sip on her coffee, she heard a gasp from his side. The coffee was all over the new tiles. She was jerked out of her reverie and slapped right across her face. Apparently, she could not sip from ‘his’ mug.
The mug lay shattered like her.
It was her parent’s anniversary and she could barely contain her emotions, another slap! She was not supposed to let their ‘little’ secret out. Endless incidents, each time she was slapped and thrashed, she hardly knew why. Sometimes, she would bleed. Sometimes, she would be pampered. Sometimes, she would be scratched. Sometimes, she would be raped. Sometimes, she was bought expensive presents. She kept quiet and took everything that came her way with teary eyes.
She bore the fruit of his sin.
For 9 months, she fed it with all the love in the world. She knew the repercussions of the rape; she swallowed it into her stomach. Then one day, Sara was born. The labour was not any less painful. By now, she knew what pain looked and felt like. That one chromosome could have changed her life but it was a baby girl. He was ecstatic and they celebrated but only she knew what was in store for Sara. Three months later, she was still suffering with the post-labour pains. Sara woke up hungry and crying, and she lay in bed as she could barely move for her belly hurt. His honey-heavy slumber dew was disturbed and she was thrashed to the floor again, her stitches broke, blood flew; the pain was more than excruciating.
She knew that Sara’s shoulders would someday be burdened with all the weight of the big bad world but isn’t that the fate of every ‘wrong’ chromosome consequence? She wondered if she will ever be liberated from her fate and all she could do was to pray hard for Sara. Mother Earth’s patience would never run out.
Today, she sits by the stream and is still quiet.
Sara is 4 years old. She had all her favorite dolls and she was busy dressing them up. How wrong can things go? No number of feminist groups could have come to her rescue. Not because they cared or liked or commented less but she kept quiet. Obviously, it had to be her fault that she was quiet. It was her fault she married the wrong perfect man, but if not her, someone else. It was her fault that she did not retaliate- not once. It was her fault that she was raped.
Everything was her fault from the beginning.
Not that she would have been rescued from her little pool of sorrows or he would have been hanged for the domestic violence or the feminist aunties would raise their make-up mirrors to reflect the society. It’s just the regret of silence. So perhaps, silence is not all that golden!
Still, you never know, be quiet. Let that stream find its path to the ocean.
Bio: Born in Andhra and brought up in Telangana, Nanditha has written, among other publications, for The Hindu and The New Indian Express. She has to her credit a caring side. Indeed, her zeal for trust has led to several Facebook hacks and outbursts in public places. She loves dogs but would never admit so. Her story suits the theme of the month like a glove on a royal hand.