In the loudness of silence and the fortitude of loneliness, I am making the most sensible soliloquy.
For a start, the audiences were many; natives say ‘voices in my mind’. The moderator and the judge was one – just me.
It all starts with accusations, the guilt, the anger, contempt and all the formidable people who came and scarred an innocent canvas like heart. Or was it so?
Yes, it seems to be all so, and so right. Woefully I concurred with the arguments as the truth was naked enough to embarrass anyone who might even seek the evidences.
Truth? What is that truth?
It is as thick as the blood, as clear as the tear and as hard as the core. Can you face it? It is better to face it, after all.
Oh, am I a fugitive? Am I a vagabond? Or am I that ugly side whose very existence is a sham to my so called true side or was this simply face-off?
What a disgrace? Living with a stone inside your heart and saying that you ‘lived’ all these years… you existed, that’s all. And you go and stand to be an activist against so-called Hypocrites? A hypocrite for years throws stones on other glass doors. I can’t think of a bigger joke.
If you have the strength in you, listen. If you have the true heart to seek and heal the blood of another innocent heart, listen to yourself, openly.
It all started with words, with trust, with affection, with love, with sweets and chocolates. Then to my temple-like body which remains to be so, even now. Ruefully, these excerpts are taken from that phase of my life where my body was seen from lust filled filthy eyes that swore to live on earth only for self pleasure. I was hardly seven years, world to me was as innocent as my doll. As funny as my slide or swing that I played on.
Suddenly, malice wanted to make way into my life, which is when he walked into my world. Very gentle and very warm, he was the epitome of friendship, of affection, of goodness. All the world’s nicest words and things were blessed by God through him. After all, I was his scape-goat whom he was feeding to feast on royally, one day.
Days passed, months passed, the games that I played outside were dwindling, all my little friends were missing me in their hide and seek games, and so was I. Where was I hiding?
I was hiding in the bed sheets; I was made to be audience to live demos and other times I was on his lap, with the stories of adult comedy and pictures of nude couples.
I was missing my dolls; my toys were idle and empty just like my soul, when I was on his lap. Amidst the chaos of his self-pleasures, where was I living? Just as an easy sex-toy for him.
I almost forgot about my little plastic doll that I would bathe and clean. Change the dress, and brush the hair and braid or tie a pony with different colored ribbons, pink ribbon was my favorite. That was my true game. Not to lay in front of him with my pink undergarment, to be an object of his solo fore-play. My games were the small earthen pots, those lovely fluffy furry soft toys, that was my only play. Not to be a soft target to him to see someone undress before me and witness adult-male anatomy in lecherous action. Not the hideous body coming close to me for warmth while I endured his perversion with utter frigidity. I was asked to wash my hands many times; little did I know that was not for my safety. At an age where my biological clock was way behind my natural needs, yet to be slowly discovered, and my physiological changes were to happen, I stood there already dirty, just to myself. I wonder why he did not use me completely. They say, if you want to kill something, do it completely. In my case, it was just on the peripheries; after all, I was not half as good as the sex-toy he fantasized playing with. I do not know how rape is defined legally. To a girl of seven years, rape is too big a word. Is physical sexual abuse a small word? Not just for one year, for five years, until I decided to part ways silently with this inhuman, human like monster.
I did part ways with him, but embraced every bit of hatred and disgust against him and his race, the men. The feeling of being exploited is unpardonable, perhaps, even today. It was this feeling that made me react, made me spiteful and clearly hostile enough to over react and revolt about women’s exploitation and injustice, be it in any form. Why wouldn’t it? I lived in a world that was already dilapidated on one side and very good on the family side. Which one is true? Both are. To me, the world which was invaded by the pervert seemed more real. I was reborn to be a continuous fighter from inside while I was docile enough to fake the world outside. As I grew, the hatred took different forms of violence. Sometimes objects, sometimes fights. Some other times violent bouts. The reaction of being helpless and exploited grew with me in so many ways along the years. Men are mean and that is the only dead end to which all my logical shouts and screams lead me to. With this conclusion, there was tranquility and all the noise made a very elegant exit out of my mind.
Time froze in my mind, along with my mind. I started living in a different dimension. My perceptions made me a different person. Anything related to physical intimacy was a gag to me, out of all relations, marriage was the biggest joke. It had to be so.
Silence one of the greatest signs of virtue in nature. We all find happiness when we are at peace within ourselves, we own a certain amount of space, nature does teach many things in silence, and the strongest lesson is to suffer in silence. Endurance, maybe that’s a better word, and it is not easy to achieve this. Once you taste it in your very early life, it is impossible to come down that benchmark. You call toughness upon you to match up to the earlier lessons and experiences. And this is adaptation, perhaps.
About the pervert who controlled my life for so many years….what do you think should be the answer to him? Mind you, he is a well acclaimed doctor now, living in a far away land, with a very great name for his family and himself, a socialite and a proud father of a cute little daughter.
He sure had a shrewd plan, never to come back to his ugly past – me. What do you think? Will that work? Even if he sold his soul and fed it to the pigs, I did not. On the contrary, nature has its own sweet ways to clean its own mess. The process of cleansing started right from that age, to keep my mind pure. Some great girls who get close to God at a very young age may have their own reasons, and I have mine.
I am proud and powerful since then. My eyes have a different reality, to me truth is God, to be close to my God, I see into the souls of people, the habit of soul-searching within me left me with this ‘character’istic.
But the question remains, what do I do with him? So what if he is petrified to face me, I believe in our truth, my truth, my God and I don’t have to go to him to react. One day, life will play with him while I watch his on a seven dimensional live – screen, with the remote in God’s hand. I shall sit with chips in a relaxing chair, seeing him suffer in silence and I don’t have an option to change the channel, and neither does he, in fact no one at that time can stop his tragically comic flop show, exclusively for me.
Direction, screen play, visual effects and date of release: God.
( Writing is based upon a true story of a lady, abused as a girl)
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