It was late in the night when she called me; she was sobbing. Her sobs had subsided into muffled sighs and if her voice was any indication she had been crying for a while now. “Didi”, she said, “I have no one to turn to, you really need to hear me out.”
My life is always on the go. You will never hear me cribbing about the fact that I have nothing to do; it’s more like I have so much to do all the time. Keeping myself busy doesn’t let me be alone with myself, alone with my own thoughts, alone with my demons, demons which were never put to death. So naturally when my younger sister called me, I was out yet again, schmoozing at a soirée, with a smile pasted on my face and a glass of wine in my hand. Life just becomes easier with the help of red wine, I guess. Her words muted the blaring music coming from the speakers and I knew she had to tell me something, which she hadn’t shared with anyone else.
“He did things to me didi,” she said, “it was so very bad. I had no idea what it meant at that time and when I realised, I was too scared to share it with you or mom. He was always around, dropping me to places, getting gifts for me, always cracking jokes and making all of you laugh. I really had no idea how to tell any of you,” she added. The ground seemed to shake and I could hear a faint ringing in my ears.
I remember the day when my mother met him. He was younger to her and she called him her ‘moohbola bhai’. He was one of her best friend’s brother who happened to live 10 minutes away from our house. He would drop in unannounced and stay for dinner. He was a great cook and would always tell my mother to take rest while he took over the kitchen. My father who is usually skeptical about outsiders who are overfriendly also warmed up to him and he would actually get busy discussing politics and sports with this man. In short, he had become a part of our family. The extended family member you could lean on whenever you wanted. I remember, so many times when I had to be somewhere and I was getting late, he would drop me and would do the same for my sister. He would take me to eat junk food and I would love every bit of it. Every time he travelled, he would get me a book I was dying to read or some trinket, I would cherish. Our whole family had started to rely on him and he really fit the family.
The first time it happened, it really had me confused of what exactly had happened. I had a terrible headache. After school I just wanted to rest and not step out of the house. My whole body was giving up. Five hours of basketball under the sun had drained me out and I was resting when he entered the room. Do you know my mother was in the house at the time when he entered the house? She had no clue the favourite uncle is going inside the room not to soothe his niece, but to strain the erection in his pants. He told me he was going to give me a head massage so that I will feel better and he didn’t even bother to switch on the light. It all started as his hands started moving from my head to my shoulders to my barely-there breasts. His pants were unzipped by then and his penis out in the open. I was very scared. It was the first time I had actually seen a penis. One of his hands grabbed his erection while the other headed south, trying to find a way through my underwear, touching me where no one had ever touched me, exploring it. He tried to put his finger inside me, while touching himself at the same time. I was shivering by the time and I was too scared to even move but his intruding finger made me whimper from pain and that is when it all got over. With a grunt he wiped himself and zipped his pants and left the room. He didn’t utter a single word and just left.
I didn’t cry, I didn’t complain, I didn’t move for a very long time. I was still shivering when exhaustion actually took over and I slept. After that day I rarely spoke to him. I would stay away from him as much possible and the moment he would enter the house I would find a reason to leave. I made sure I was never alone with him ever. Over the years, I buried the memory somewhere and forgot all about it. I had learnt how to smile again, I had learnt how to be happy all over again, at least I was trying. The demons of that evening followed me everywhere but I had become strong enough to fight them. But then this call just brought them all back.
He had done that to my sister, as well. He had molested her as well. “He hurt me didi, it was so bad, but I was so scared so I couldn’t tell you or anyone, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to tell you, I had to get it off my chest,” she added. I didn’t know how to respond. I couldn’t tell her that we were travelling in the same boat. She had the strength and guts to tell me, but I was a coward, living with my scars, afraid to show them to anyone. I spoke to her for a very long time, hearing her out, trying to soothe her in my own maternal way, helping her heal. The fact that I was not there to help my sister because I was too busy running away from him, enraged me and at the same time made me want to break down and wail till life stopped making sense. May be it wouldn’t have happened if I had let him use me or if I had the guts to tell my parents. These ‘what ifs’ rule my life and so do the scars.
Here I am being a hypocrite, trying to help my sister while I am too scared to ask for help myself. No one knows that it happened to me and no one should. I will heal in due time, meanwhile I am going to help my sister heal.
