Every evening, I see these birds flying from one side to another. I am jealous. Even they have a home of their own and a final destination.
Since the day I was born, I never saw marriage, happiness, and life?">happiness on my father’s face. I was an unwanted child. Actually, my father was expecting a boy and for my mother, I was an unwanted child. I don’t cry now. Guess, I don’t have any more tears left. Before reaching the age of eight, my mother taught me everything; every single thing about cooking, stitching, farming, and relationship building. My daughter-in-law knows nothing about these and she is 28. Everybody is shouting – time has really changed. But, for me, it never did; same dark clouds of pain on my head.
- I was an unwanted child.
- I was raped by my uncle.
- He put a coal press on my arms
- I ignored my husband for my son.
I really hate these curtains because they looted my identity. I was always asked to stay behind these walls of colorful clothes. “Why me and why not my brother?” This made me hate all the men; and strengthen my beliefs about them – they all are means, dictators, rapists and eve-teasers until I get married.
All the time, my father used to treat me like a liability. For every wrongly baked bread, my mother used to hit me with a stick. “When are you going to learn? One day you will be going to someone else’s home. And, they are going to blame for not teaching you things.”
Right in front of my house was living a family. Every time before a festival, they used to bring a Goat. I have seen the whole family feeding that goat; feeding like that goat is going to explode someday. Then, on the day of the festival, I saw blood coming out of their house. As a kid I always got scared. But, by the time I was told that this was the only purpose of that goat. That was a scapegoat and was nurtured for this purpose only. With every year passed, I noticed a change in my reflection; in the mirror, it was not me, but the scapegoat.
I was not offered as the bigger share of the sky as my brother was given to fly the kite of dreams. “I am a girl and I am not allowed to see dreams.”
My tiny heart with tiny little dreams and my tiny eyes with big tears.
I cannot forget those nights that I spend watching moon. Dear mother, where are you. This second wife of my father is treating me like a commodity that she is going to exchange later.
I still feel pain and itch on the dead skin of my arms. That ugly day, when I lost my virginity. I was just 16 when I became a prey of someone’s lust. I struggled and had a tough fight with that wolf, but I was weak; I was just a silent lamb. I shouted a lot. To make me quiet, he put a coal press on my arms. I was silent and half dead.
My arms were 70% burned and my genitals were badly damaged. After the required medication, I was asked to spend nights in the farmhouse. Every morning, I used to wash the bed sheet; full of blood. I already started to hate me. Wish I could kill myself. Every night, I used to talk to my mom through that moon and every night she used to console me – “Things will change. Be strong.”
After two years, when I was of 18, I got married. It was not a marriage, though, but a sale. My step mother sold me to a man who was 10 years older to me. I was asked to go with him. Inside, I was crying like that scapegoat of my neighbors. But, my husband was a good man.
On our nuptial night, I told him every single tragedy of my life. I don’t want to form a relationship on the pillars of lies. “I am so sorry for the pain you have been through, but at the same, I don’t care about your past. That is gone. Now, I will try my level best to help you forget every grief of yours. And, he seriously did. Never cried after that until I had my baby – the boy.
I nurtured him with my youthfulness. I gave up everything just to grow him up. I was more into his upbringing and I forgot to take care of my husband. Every time my husband caught my son doing drugs and sitting with junkies, I was the one who used to protect him (my son) from the leather belt of my husband. “You are helping him. You are going to make him a criminal. I bet you, one day he will throw you out of this house,” my husband warned me.
These little altercations, I don’t know, when they become a gorge; a deep dark gorge that sucked my relationship with my husband. It was hard for me to balance things and much harder was to make my husband understand all this. My husband fell in love with the bottle of whiskey. He became a drunkard. On that ill-fated day, he lost his legs and had a severe spinal injury; a truck rammed into him. He was bed-ridden.
After his accident, all my expectations were from my son. But, my son was now a renowned criminal of the area. My husband was true. I spoiled my little kid. My son, whom I gave my blood to suck through my breast, was now beating me like my father.
Every single day, things were disappearing. Arguments were more likely a soap opera, now. My son started beating me and my bed-ridden husband. He killed my half-dead husband and, despite being a witness, I saved him. After all, he was my son; I had him after so many prayers.
Now, he is married and living in the same house, sharing the same room that I used to share with my husband. He is not at all concerned about how I feel. My life is more likely a fictional story, where I played the lead role. I don’t know, whom I should announce the villain of my story; my bad luck, my silence, my patience, or my karma?