There are times when I am usually proud to be a woman. But surely, mostly, I am now, scared of being one.

But more than me, it is the children I fear for. They are the ones increasingly being tortured, either physically or mentally, or both. None of these A-holes (apologies for my language) ever realize the trauma these children go through to set their lives back to normal. Sometimes, they never recover even, or they might push those wretched memories to some faraway corner of their minds. Yet, they’re reminded every now and then of the trauma and pain they felt, when they come across such instances.

I know what they feel when they grow up. I know how they try to move on. I know because I too, have been raped. Twice

I am 24 years old now. And for almost all of these 24 years, I have been living with tormented memories that cripple my strength and turn it into fear. A dark room or even certain scents reel my memory back in time, to those incidents, scaring the hell out of me. I have been living with them in some deep and dark corner of my heart, still yearning to let go some day or the other.

I learnt to speak only when I was 5. I really have no idea what was wrong with me but it was only after my 5th birthday that I could finally address my parents. I was born in Qatar, relinquishing in the richness of the Arabic land. So my family visiting from India was quite a relief for me from all those monotonous routines of school and home, and obviously the heat of the desert.

After I turned 4, during my vacations, my parents had to visit their relatives and I was left with my grandmother. My uncle’s friend, who was my mother’s classmate, was a frequent guest whenever my parents visited India, so he was obviously a trusted person. That day, as usual he came to play hide and seek with me. And I was supposed to hide but I was fooling around. He caught me and we were laughing until he took me to the store room of my big ancestral home, promising me a magic trick.

Curious as I was, I couldn’t wait, until he showed me his 6 and a half inch 'magic stick' popping out of his pants. And he told me I could see the magic only if I put his thing inside my mouth. I was damn scared, obviously thinking how a toy could become so nasty and slimy.

I remember crying but since I couldn’t speak or raise my voice I was only quivering as he forced me to do that. He then lifted my pink frock, removed my inner wears forcibly, and with his tongue invaded my insides -the insides of a little girl, who didn’t know why this was happening to her.

And he started plunging his thing inside me, I fainted, not being able to bear the pain. I woke up in my room with my parents and my brother surrounding me as they caressed my forehead with teary eyes. I stopped playing. How could I say anything to anyone? I didn’t know how to speak.

I was scared because after his next visit, he swore to kill my family if I uttered a word. Years flew by and with each passing year, I became quieter.

Again during another vacation, I was left alone with my brother. I was 7, I think. After my previous incident, I played only with my brother. Then again, my parents weren’t at home. I just came after my shower and I only wore a frock (it was our new home and I didn’t know where my things were kept).

This time my brother promised me a new game. He lay on top of me, lifting my frock, he started pushing his growing thing inside me (he was 14 then) as my previous memory came back right on my face.

As I was trying to push him away, he told me if this was spoken about, my parents will be punished as we were doing this for their blessings. I obliged. I remember asking him to do it again so that my father could be blessed more, no matter how painful it was for me.

He smiled and kissed me and after he finished, he went to freshen up, after adjusting my frock. My mind was blank. My little mind numbed under the weight of a thousand questions. I was confused, hurt. I started hating my parents after that. Each time my parents beat me up as I was growing up, my only question then was - if I could bear so much pain for them, why couldn’t they let go of my childish tantrums that any child of my age would do?

I struggled with these memories. I just couldn’t hate my brother. He might or might not remember but I do remember every damn thing. I just couldn’t accept the fact that my own brother did this to me. I have been living with these nightmares locked inside my mind for years now. My boyfriend knows, but not that I was raped. He doesn’t know about my brother, only that uncle. I shared all these with my boyfriend thinking it might reduce my pain. 

I saw this same uncle after all these years at my brother’s reception. Everything came back to me. That’s when I realised that the pain never leaves you. It never does and it never will. You will learn to live with them. You learn to live, promising yourself that your child will never face the same ordeal.

This story was submitted by Meera. 

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