An ugly visitor

A diary entry:

December 24, 1999  ; 00h10

Dear diary
First of all, I wish you a wonderful Christmas and  happy 20th to me. Second, I am sorry for reaching you 10 minutes late . There is nothing extraordinary and exciting to share at present, but just that I am looking forward to lighting my favorite candle at church this morning. You know, it is really a gorgeous one. A scintillating blue colored candle. With each of its purest melting wax would my deepest prayers be heard, I believe, because this time I have to request for a couple of real SERIOUS things from the lord. They say that prayers should not be shared with anyone , but your lord. Dear diary, you are closest to me. My best friend ever since I found myself caught in the desperation to show my bare self to. Except you, otherwise, who else would have ever known what sort of beauty do my eyes long for and what does my heart whisper? 

Darling, I will tell you something today. Something that I could not erase the memories of, and whenever it hovers my head, a gush of shame and guilt and pain runs down my veins. My skin spills out a sweat of discomfort and embarrassment. My whole body aches with anger and disgust. 
 I do not remember my exact age, I was that young, when he touched me inappropriately for the first time . I was not sure if that was right, but that was certainly not a familiar touch. Not until I got used to it with his every advent at my house.
Raman has always been close to my family. In fact, my father trusted him so much that he chose to pull Raman out of the village and educate him in the city we live in. My uncle could have never afforded it, otherwise. That was long before I was born. I am 20 years younger than Raman. 20 years! The day Raman was selected in the Army, I remember my mother offering sweets to the poor children who came to pick edibles from the dumps down the street. My father, on the other hand, was proud to see his efforts paying off. 
"My sweet little, Anna, come here. Sit on my lap, my doll", that used to be Raman's greeting statement for me. While my mother engaged herself preparing cuisines for him, he'd stealthily run his fingers through my hair, my body,.. under my dress. And as soon as my mother arrived, he'd be a different man. Someone totally different than a second ago. His jovial attitude never really flickered a hint to others, not even the slightest, of the evil inside of him.  
I was succumbed to my ignorance. He'd often find a place to take me to, where no one else could hear me cry, just in case his grip slipped off my mouth. My heart bled. Every time. Every time he fooled my family to secretly take me away at an abandoned place, I'd sob to take a glimpse of my father, and brother because Raman taught me the value of blood relation, Love and family. That one good thing he did, yes.
"Here goes my girl. We are almost done. Today, I'd get you a chocolate , my obedient doll", he'd whisper to me every time before heaving the final sigh.
I would not define it as a "moment". Moments are ought to be beautiful. 
Every time I got back home after that, I remember taking shower for long, longer than usual and harsher than ever before. I'd scrub my skin just too hard until I end up hurting myself. I'd wash my hair vigorously to get rid off the minutest of his details. But, unfortunately nothing worked never. That feeling of disgust never could subside. His presence always lingered beneath my skin. It was never easy to swallow it all down, but I did. I do not know how, but I did.
There were days when I tried sharing it with my mother but, perhaps, she could not understand or perhaps, I was unclear. Every time Raman visited home, it used to be for 2 days at least. And every time he did, I'd try to spend most of my time at school and with homeworks, making sure that my father or brother were around. One thing that I could not find an escape from was to show him respect in public. After all, he was my cousin.
My childhood rooted a strong intuition in me about manhood, feminism, sexuality and so much more that my growing up has been quite assertive and rational. Men and women are not an object to me. Neither are they subjective. There is a superlative degree of spirituality involved somewhere in between two bodies, I am sure of that. And that can never be defined by dominance. I now know who and what I am looking for. One's individuality should be denominated by generosity first, respect second and love third. Rest all follows.
It's been a while since I confronted Raman. My dear, this is one of the things that I'd be asking the almighty for- to bestow me with enough courage that I do not need someone else to help me get off the hook. I want enough strength to just shove all my anger at Raman, all at once, so hard that the child that still weeps and yearns for justice within sometimes could find a solace. I promise to protect her, wrap her dearly in arms this time, close to my heart, forever. I promise

See you, love. 
.................

January 4, 2004 
Raman is now married and blessed with a girl child.

"Anna! Come here. Look who's here?", mother called her from the living room. While Anna was busy writing her thesis for the seminar next day at college, she guessed it to be her best friend Freddy.
"Nah! He'd have informally hopped inside the room uninvited, anyway. So, who else could it be?"
As she steps outside her room, she saw a child crawling towards her.  A really pretty one. She lifts her up, admires and plays for a while. Right then a manly voice calls her out from behind, "Anna! My lovely doll !! "
A sudden gush of anguish and discomfort grew inside her. That familiar old feeling shook her once again. Anna, before turning back to Raman, threw a glance at his daughter. She was incredibly
beautiful and as delicate as a flower petal. Anna held her a bit more closer to her chest.

Chastity does not dignify a being, it merely classifies between the Love and the Loveless

It was the last time Raman ever showed up.

What languished her voice back then gave her enormous courage to speak up today. But the scars of childhood remained




 







 

Airplanes

What is motivating me to write again? Today, it is the fundamental ''ailment'' that has unfortunately connected thousands of beating hearts with millions of hopeless hopes, daunting dreams, and that certainly is an unfortunate cause for a mediocre livelihood, unhappiness and a biased society. You can not disconnect yourself from the pain of being poor, neither can you pin your feet to the ground when overwhelmed with it.

I have known Shanti since 20 years now. She hails from an exceptionally poor family in my neighborhood. No, not poor. I'd say, She is not rich. Her mother is a maid servant who has been working at our house since a very long time, long before I was born. One thing that Shanti gets offended with is to see someone addressing her mother as a ''maid''. ''My mother is not a maid'', she would yell at me sometimes out of frustration when I insensitively yanked about her social status. I did that everyday, almost everyday. I continued it until my very own fate directed me to taste the bitterness of that state in which Shanti was destined to be, ever since she was born-that restless state of desperate longing for something irresistible.

"You know what, didi ji?" She smiled sheepishly and said one evening while we were watching airplanes frequently crossing the clouds that sheltered my house , making their way to the horizon. We watched it till the minutest of their glimpse faded away.

"I want to ride that airplane and take it to.... umm... to a place where there are good people, lot of money, a place where my mother need not work as a maid." She said all that in a go with several emotions sprouting and curling up on her face.

"You want to be a pilot?"

"What's that, didi ji?"

"A pilot is someone who flies the plane"

"Ah, yes! I want to be that. A pilot"

"But Shanti, you got to be well educated and skilled to be one"

Shanti knew what  I was talking about. She changed the topic quickly for she realized the ground beneath her feet and a pounding heart that really wanted to break through the ribs and set her free, emancipate her from all the aches. It did not take too long for her to realize her family's destitute. The very reason she could not go to school. Although, it did not affect our bonding. She was close to me, yet we were worlds apart. To her, I was somebody to look up to. To me, she was somebody to pour out my frustrations on, kill monotonous time with. Despite spending most of my time with her, I never felt comfortable introducing her to my friends. A pang of embarrassment remained beneath my bones. I had to maintain my social prestige. I had to masquerade the humane side of me behind the glittering social showbiz.

One winter afternoon, while I was passing my time playing crosswords, she comes and sits gingerly next to me. She was dressed up in  my old, ripped clothes, sweaters and a scarf.

"Didi ji, can you please lend me your room heater to us? Just for a day? I promise to return it back by tomorrow as early as I wake up. Also, please convey this message to bibi ji that my mother can not make it to work this week. I will, on her behalf"
Shanti did not learn to request. She begged. Everytime. And that quite often inflicted a discomfort in me, as well as a mean pride.

I brooded for a while.

"Shanti, is everything okay?"

"Mhm", she nodded, clinging her fists one over the other, her eyes fixed to the ground.
A moment of silence and soon she cupped her face in her palms and broke out. Before I could say anything, she started speaking , stammering
"Didi ji, I want to study"
My brain was still trying to recollect, process and adjust to things that were unexpectedly happening before me.
"Didi ji, Remember the other day we discussed about the airplane? And the one who rides it? I want to be that. Can you help me be one, please? Can you teach me? "
Her pleading gesture was creating a lump in my throat, for I could not find a convincing way to tell her that she should stop dreaming about it.
She , the very next moment, comes closer and clutches my hand into both her palms. It was difficult for me to make an eye contact. She was all in tears.
"Didi ji, I know you can teach me. I will do anything you say in return."

A woman should always help another woman. I heard or probably read it somewhere and it did make sense NOW. I pitied, but did not feel
"You can come from tomorrow, Shanti" I placed my hands on her shoulders to compose.
"Ouch" she cried
"What happened?"
Her face turned blue. My mind started making stories, and my subconscious wasn't ready to believe any of them
"Shanti? Can I ?"
"Didi ji, promise me that this is going to be only between both of us. My mother would not spare me otherwise. She would beat me. Again"
As I pulled the layers of clothes off her shoulder, my heart was beating fast, and faster. I could not stop myself from panicking until I noticed those black and blue swollen marks on her shoulders and back, some old scars , some fresh wounds. She quickly covered it all once again beneath the tattered , off colored  clothes.
The silence ached my heart. "How? Who did this to you, Shanti?", I asked

Her lips were gathering courage to speak her heart out. "Yesterday, it was my father"
"Why?"
"I insisted him to stop consuming alcohol. You know, Didi ji, he'd smack down my mother every night. He'd hit her like she is merely a stone. And if I interrupted, he'd beat me too."
Shanti's father was a cobbler. He was a hard working man. Perhaps, he, too, was torn between poverty  and accomplishment. Perhaps, he felt that he's failed as a man, a husband, a father, for there were days when family slept without a loaf of bread. He was in debt, already, and Shanti's mother contributed to cover up the amount with all that she got from her job. The last time I saw Shanti being beaten when she was 9. Her shabby clothes covered the wounds but not the pain. Her face reflected pretty much about her bruised heart
This was my only chance to wash away all those regrets of mocking her so callously. I should have taken this step long ago, but it never occurred to me until I saw the fresh cuts and faded scars on her tender skin. 

I could not spend too much time  grooming her. But, fortunately, she learnt to read and write before I left for my higher education to a different city. A year later, Shanti got married and moved to a different county. She took preliminary classes for school kids, so I heard. Her dream of becoming a pilot remained unfulfilled. The airplanes up above the horizon might be reminding her of that desire to fly. She'd sigh out of disappointment, but that feeling won't be as strong as before. She'd be happy to  see herself write all that she wants to. Her dreams, wishes, ideologies, incidents..and that certainly would help others like Shanti achieve their dreams.

Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world                                            -Nelson Mandela