The she waits for....

I ran as hard as I could, zipping by small lanes and little shops, where I usually stop for a chat, but not today. Today is special. Father said that I won’t have to go to school after today; the only thing he has ever said in my favour. I don’t understand why I went there in the first place when all I wanted was to be like mother, cook at home and take care of kids. That’s the only thing I wanted to do because I am exactly like her. Not like father. Not even a little bit. He beats mum every night. I hear her cry from the thin walls of her room. Why doesn’t my brother seem to care? Perhaps he is like father. or perhaps he will beat me one day. Today is special for another worthwhile reason. I will get married today. I am ecstatic. Mother is crying, but I don’t understand why. I look so pretty like a bride, the henna in my hand and a read veil on my head just gave me frightful sums of joy. Mother should be happy for me, shouldn’t she? I asked her how I look, but all she was worried about was that I will leave her and go. That was the first time it hit me, marriage doesn’t only mean “no more school”, but also means that I will go away from home; from mother. Just as I start to panic, father walked in and gave me a stare, told me to keep quiet. He seemed cross, reminded me that I was a big girl now – twelve years old and I was crying like a baby. I need to get married and take care of an entire house, just like mother. I was born to do that. That somehow calms me down. That was enough for me. I will be doing what she does. Perhaps I could visit her every day? My new home won’t be too far of course. I was excited again. Now I wanted to see who the boy was. I hoped against all hope that he should not turn out to be like father, or even brother. Actually I just had a tingling confidence that he won’t be. I was happy, probably for the last time. But how could I know it then? I am not sure if I would have done anything differently if I knew. I don’t think I would have been allowed to even if I did, even if I wanted to. Zaheer, my husband, was much older; probably father’s age. Apparently he was the best suitor, as he paid the most money. He didn’t love me, beat me and raped me every night. I was only allowed to go home to my mother only once a month. Sometimes she would see marks on my face and ask what happened. I would lie that I fell down, but she knew better than that. I got pregnant with my first child by the time I was 14, he seemed pleased with me. He stopped hitting me after getting drunk, used to sleep right after coming home. He even got me new bangles. I thought life was finally taking a turn for the good, but God had other plans. Soon after the happy news I had a miscarriage. It wasn’t my fault. I don’t even know how it happened and why. I lost a lot of blood and fainted; when I woke up he was next to me. I wanted to hug him and cry. But he beat me. I begged him, he won’t hear of it. I told him I didn’t do anything wrong but... I wasn’t allowed to go home for the next two months, I was sad but I never complained. I always wondered why was I born a girl, or if I was a boy had I done the same? I am not sure anymore, maybe that’s how they are. I was pregnant again and after 9 months I gave birth to a baby girl. I was confident that Zaheer would be happy. But he wanted a boy; I did understand why so I didn’t complain. I hoped it was a boy too. I didn’t want her to suffer but “that was the way it was,” as my dad said. “Girls are born for this; they have no say in the matter”. They can’t help it! I wish I could... After two other girls, one day Zaheer came home with another 12 year old girl. He said she is his wife. I was devastated. I was 25 now, I did not understand why. I couldn’t ask, because I was a girl and hence am not allowed to question my husband’s decisions. “He is not wrong” I said to myself, I was at fault somewhere. I was a wife, I should have been jealous of my husband’s new wife, but all I could feel was pity, I felt bad for the innocent girl and wanted to help her out in some way. But I was just a girl, I wish I could help...

Trespassing Sunlight

She tossed and turned in her bed, wrestling with discomfort. She had been having these nightmares for a long time… as long as she could remember. The bed that she was tied down to had the softest mattress, like it was made of clouds. She never got to see anything around her because of the dim lighting in the enclosed room. The suspense killed her. She felt deaf, not able to register the sound that was her screaming from the deepest of her gut. She felt cold air slice through her hair when she heard something steely behind her. A door opened. There was nothing she could do or say, time slowed down and a few arms appeared on each side of her. She craned her neck to see the arms were attached to two women, whom she had never seen before. Their faces were stiff as stone, and hands grabbed her, hurting her wrists. Then she felt a prick, or was it a stab? The pain was too much to bear. Pain gradually started to spread; one prick became ten, and then a hundred, then a thousand. A thousand pricks – she was drenched in her own sweat as her eyelids felt heavier and heavier. She saw a faint image of the women again. They were smiling now. She knew she was dying. She woke up with a start. “Late again” she mumbled, distraught, as she got out of bed and got ready for work. As every day, from the day since she could possibly recall, her life was too monotonous. Like clockwork. Every morning led to her rush to the bathroom, then the kitchen and then off to work. She cursed herself for never getting up to the alarm, and had to hatefully thank those stupid heart-sinking nightmares The process was so steady now that she lost track of the unanimous times she spent as a child when she savoured a cold shower in warm mornings, or the delicious sandwiches her mother used to make her before she left for school. She clearly remembered the smiley faces her mother used to make on those sandwiches with ketchup. She found those smiley faces every morning in her kitchen on her sandwiches even today. She gobbled it up knowing breakfast will only slow her down as she walked out of her apartment. The commute was rather a blur. She was only setting down her cup on her table when she heard his voice behind her cubicle’s pale walls. He was the only reason she came to work. He was tall and dark and simply… dreamy. Normal people wouldn’t find him too attractive, but Meera was smitten by everything about him. “Late again,” he said and winked at her. She blushed. She knew he was married, but she knew he loved her as much as she loved him, or even more. Everything about him was so perfect; she thought to herself. She felt lucky to have him. She had given him every possible subtle hint about her feelings for him, but his response never went any deeper in emotion than a flirtatious comment. Her friends had told her to move on, but she was convinced that he was just shy. She was madly in love with him. She worked till late like most days, usually waiting to leave when he leaves. After a hectic day she offered him to go for a nice dinner to refresh their mood. He enjoyed her company also. This time she got really lucky, he invited her for dinner at a restaurant. They talked for hours together. Time faded away into the distance and visions of him telling her about his dog and the town where he grew up became a kaleidoscope of his faces in her eyes. She knew she was in love. Madly. He reached out his hand and held hers across the table. He smiled. He confessed. She knew so was he. The alarm rang. She was thoroughly disturbed, despite her long cheery memory of a previously beautiful day. She threw the alarm clock on the ground and it broke, but her sleep was disturbed. She popped in some more sleeping pills and felt the need to complete her dream, but to no avail. She wanted to hold his hand again. She wanted to kiss him again. Just like last night. But ever since she walked in her office today, he looked distracted and wouldn’t even tell what was wrong. She snatched an opportunity to talk in front of the water cooler. He talked about his wife, which made Meera angry. She didn’t know why he talked about her so much when he didn’t love her. Ajit told Meera how thankful he was to have a friend like her. She walked slowly back in a trance to her table. Since when did she get demoted? A friend? She thought she was more as she sat there digging her nails in her knuckles. After office she asked for some time alone with him and he obliged hesitantly. They went to a park nearby. The sun seemed, setting in front of them above tall, scaly trees. She told him that she loved him, and he felt the same for her. She reminded him about last night. She fought and tried to convince him. He had no idea what she was saying. And this time no kaleidoscope weaved into her vision. He tried to explain but she was throwing things at him. The situation went out of control and he left her there crying. She then got up and ran. Took a bus home. The commute was a blur. She reached home and made a mess of it. She kept hurting herself, pulling her hair and crying till she fell off her bed. She woke up with a start, but she sat there without moving a limb. She thought she needed rest, she thought she slept as she had a lot to drink last evening. She reached for the bottle at her bed side, not even caring to open her eyes. The bottle of whiskey tumbled and spilled over her carpet, but she ignored that. She knew nothing can calm her except the pills. It was because of them she could survive him being so rude, she was angry and in pain, not knowing she survived a whole week after their fight in the park. Her mother was in the other room, crying and explaining matters to her husband; she came rushing from their hometown as soon as Meera’s friends started to get worried about her. Meanwhile, Meera’s hands searched for the medicine when her mother appeared, crying and screaming. She knew she wanted to go back to sleep and didn’t really care why mom makes a big fuss about the pills – they were Magic. She popped in some more before her mother could stop her. She lay limp while her mother called the doctor. Her head spun from the smell of phenol which occupied the room. She rubbed her eyes in an attempt to see clearly. She was certain she was dreaming. The paint on the unfamiliar walls was dull and scrapped from most corners. A tall dark man appeared and with a smile he asked me if she was doing fine. Her first reaction was to ask in anxiety about what was happening to her? She sensed weakness, and felt as though cold air seeped into her skull. She grabbed the doctor’s arms and begged for some pills, then screamed, cried, and struggled when denied. She jumped out of bed but felt no life in her own limbs to keep her steady, and fell with a thud on the cold marble floor. Her fingers trembled as she tried to gather all her strength to crawl towards the door, crawl away from this nightmare. The stranger in the room tried to help her get up but she pushed his hands away with a yell. The doctor pressed a button on the wall, which was soon followed by more strangers coming up. The room started to shrink as more arms tried to grab on her, this time succeeding, and putting her back on her bed. But this time she could not jump right off, as if her limbs were chopped off. She glanced around herself incessantly in panic, only to realise that her arms and legs were there, but strapped. Then she felt a prick, or was it a stab? The pain was too much to bear. Pain gradually started to spread; one prick became ten, and then a hundred, then a thousand. A thousand pricks – she was drenched in her own sweat as her eyelids felt heavier and heavier. She saw a faint image of the strange man again. He was not smiling now. She knew she was dying. The room was quite again. Her shouts still echoed in her mind, which became sweet mumbles in the room with unfamiliar walls. No one said a word but they all knew she would never be cured again. She felt her lids to grow heavier by each breath, and then slowly opened her eyes again. She realised she was in the park again. Ajit was approaching her. Was he smiling? She turned her face away and crossed her arms with a fuss, although she knew moments later she would melt in his arms once he wooed her back. She stared straight at the sun, which set majestically over full-blossom trees, or was it rising? She preferred to see it rising. A new beginning. She fought the thoughts of more strangers and more unfamiliar and rude arms that were just around the corner somewhere in her world. She knew they will come back. But she would give everything to cherish what she had now, and she did. She was just mesmerised, by choice, to be a part of this broken dawn.

BROKEN RATTLES

Shh!! “Don’t make a noise. Let it come and we will catch it as soon as it comes near. If it runs towards you, you catch it, ok? Then we will play with it.” The squirrel went right through the middle and they both banged into each other. There was a huge gust of wind that blew into their faces. Laughing hysterically, they got up. The dust cleared and you could see two small boys so different yet so similar in their own ways. One of them was wearing a pair of lose pajamas, a long kurta on his young torso, while the other wore small shorts and a tee shirt. They both dusted the mud off their clothes as they got up giggling. They were best friends. They were even born the same day. They used to play together all day long. Krishna was from India and Mohammad was from Pakistan. They grew up seeing deaths due to bombing from both sides of the border. They had seen it so much that if for a month if they don’t hear the voices of weapons they felt uncomfortable. Different places or faiths didn’t matter to them. They had been there for each other forever, and will be they knew it. There were no schools left so their parents decided to teach them about the holy books in their own homes. The boys were still inseparable; they used to read about the Geeta in the morning and about the Quran in the evening. Like Muslims both of them used to commit their time to the Namaz five times a day and also pray to lord Ram and Krishna twice a day, in morning and evening. Whatever little time was left during the day they used to spend playing and climbing trees, if one got ill, the other one used to take care of him like a brother. They used to celebrate both Diwali and Eid together. Their parents were not best of friends; nonetheless they used to love both the kids. They used to play with ice when it used to snow and with sand when it was hot. Nothing could stop their free souls. One normal day, both of them got free from the morning prayers and a nice heavy breakfast. They went out to play in the sun and found an unusual ball to play with as they threw it to each other. They heard a loud noise, it was not from too far away, as the dust cleared they realized both their homes were burnt down and soon there were fire from both sides and soldiers managed to save both the kids, realizing they were from the two countries. Mohammad was taken by the Pakistani army and Krishna by the Indian. They grew up within both armies but never forgot each other. Now they were both successful army personnel’s fighting for their own country. They had till now learnt to hate the other country and had abuse them, killed many soldiers and had treated the bodies with disrespect. Today they stand in front of each other in the same place where they used to play together, now with guns facing each other. They both pictured of getting shot by the soldier in front, and die for their country. As they would die they would fall… even as their lives flashed past their eyes, they could only think of their childhood friend and wished long life for the friend they didn’t meet in a long time. As they die they wish they had a chance to meet their old friend once at least when they grew up. But no time was left. They came back to reality as a grenade blew up next to them… the two soldiers looked straight into each other’s eyes and aimed for each other’s hearts…

lip-stick story

Cursing his fate, he laid still on the slightly wet grass. It was the only time he was not judged. The dimly lit sky was calm and helped him fulfill all his inhibitions that were not acceptable to the world and will never be. He stood up scanned the place satisfactorily. Then opened his small bag pack took out a dupatta and the long hair wig which he stole from his mothers dresser. He tied the dupatta around his thin legs like a saree and placed the wig properly on his head. The night was beautiful; he hummed his favorite tune and started to sway. His long locks swayed with the wind, while he ran his hands every once in a while on his hair to make sure it doesn’t fall off. The people who knew him wouldn’t be shocked by this; it was just that no one actually knew him. Nobody understood what he felt and why.
Life was very confusing for Ranjan till the day he was told by his father that he was born a hermaphrodite. His father was a sarpanch of the village, everyone respected him. His pride would have suffered, so both his parents decided to have an operation and Ranjan would grow like a man. However, as he grew up, his female inside him wanted to be free. He once wore his mom’s necklace to the village mela, like his other girl-friends, and when he returned he was hit by a belt by his father while his mother cursed her fate to give birth to such a ‘thing’. He enjoyed sitting and gossiping more than playing with the boys. Everyone made fun of him. Girls dint want a guy around when they were talking, and he was very bad at cricket so the boys used to call her a girl. He used to stay at home and stare out of the window most of the time. At night, the only time he was not monitored, he used to sneak out of the house and put makeup like his mother sometimes wear her night gown and dance like a girl.
Ranjan was not allowed to attend the community school as he once borrowed a skirt from his female friends to try on and see how he looks. The news reached his father who freaked out and hit Ranjan with a stick between his legs to remind him he was no more a woman after the operation. Ranjan had a lot of questions to ask from everyone, but he knew all he would get is scolding and curses, but no answers. As he was grew further up, his chest started to take shape. On seeing this, his mother used to tie a big cloth around his chest, so tight that it used to hurt him. He used to cry in pain and begged her to loosen it a little, at least when he is in the house. But she was scared the maid might tell people around about their little secret. He was hitting puberty and his parents were scared that they wouldn’t be able to hide it for a long time.
It was a normal morning and Ranjan got up late. He felt sick and his stomach was aching badly. He went to take a bath and his mom tied the cloth around him as routine. He couldn’t eat much for breakfast, to which his parents thought he was just being difficult. They told him that they have done a favor on him to let them live with them. He knew his parents did not love him; they were just fulfilling a social obligation by keeping him with them. Ranjan felt tired and lied down for an afternoon nap hoping the pain would go away. It did indeed, but he never got up.
It was later diagnosed that the kid started his menstrual flow but the blood could not come out as the opening wasn’t there anymore due to the operation he had as a kid. The blood accumulated inside and the kid died due to complications. His funeral was quick in the morning. There was no crying in the house. By Nightfall, Ranjan’s parents started to discuss of having a new baby. They decided to adopt this time, avoiding the risk.

Flowers on a wreath

The sun was beaming right thought the cracks in the window. Mr. Sharma tried to open his eyes, but he was too tired to get up. He closed them again tight, pulled the sheets to his face and slept off again. His sleep was disturbed once again by the chitter-chatter of people and the banging of utensils. Irritated, he got up. It was an everyday story. Charu, their care-taker, just didn’t seem to understand that they need a lot of rest at their age. Nonetheless, she was a lovely girl and did everything to keep them all very happy. Mr. Sharma was looking forward to the day as it was special; it was their new home-mate’s birthday. She had been here for a month, but she had gotten along with everyone so well that they felt she had been there forever. The thought of her bought a smile to Sharmaji’s (as she calls him) wrinkled face. He leaned forward and with weary hands picked up his glasses and carefully put them on.
He got up to do his morning ritual, tea with friends and listening to the morning news. The news was very important today as they would know who won the India v/s Australia match last night. They couldn’t watch it till the end mainly because of their health. India lost again, sighed Sharma ji, Gupta ji also looked disappointed which he showed by slurping his tea even harder. They were then joined by the ladies who had been in the kitchen helping Mrs. Mishra who insisted at making dinner for everyone for her birthday. All other ladies wanted to help her but she persisted to make it with least help from them. The ladies chit-chatted for a while about the family soap they were watching these days and the men joined in. It was one thing that everyone in Anand Nivas did together; they watched the show from 7-8 after dinner every week from Monday to Friday. It helped to keep them occupied and there were no fights over channels at least for that one hour.
Mr. Sharma got up to go to the kitchen to keep his cup, as he picked up his stick to walk. He was a not a very short man but due to age his back had bent a little. Though he was old and weary, he was fitter than most men in the house. He was also the most respected one in the house and the one who maintained the entire budget. Whatever money that the children sent to their parents was kept with Sharmaji, and used to buy all the household groceries and medicines. Some of them have been there for a long time, the oldest was Anand-bhai, who was attaining his 90s and was bed ridden most of the time. People there used to cry and miss their homes, but Mr. Sharma had never cried. He was certain that he had done all he could for his son, who in turn returned back his gratitude by keeping him away from his new bungalow and sent him money to show how he misses his father. His son came to visit him once, but Mr. Sharma refused to meet him, and he never came back. But he was always empathetic towards others when they were upset.
Mrs. Mishra was in the kitchen cooking paneer and dal for everyone. She was a good cook and was taking care of the amount of oil and masala she puts so everyone can eat it. She was a short woman with orange brown hair, due to regular use of mehendi. She had milky white skin and big brown eyes. Everyone in the home thought that she would have been very pretty in her childhood, which when someone told her she blushed. Her wrinkled skin turning a little pink was still a treat to the eyes. She was sad today as it was the first time she was spending her birthday away from her house, the house that her husband made with his mediocre salary and hard work. She did not show her sadness to anyone fearing they might feel bad as well. She also missed her deceased husband today, but she was used to living without him by now, as it had been 18 years after his death. She wrote a diary entry every day, ever since she came in the welcoming refuge of Sharmaji’s “Ajar-Ghar”; they were basically daily letters addressed to Late Mr. Mishra. Sharmaji walked into the kitchen while she was still lost in thought, and he asks in an authoritative tone, “what is for dinner?” Mrs. Mishra smiled and in a polite tone says, “Find out yourself in the evening.”
The arrangement of cake, balloons and the gift was done by Sharmaji himself, everyone kept teasing him, and later tried to help him, but he wouldn’t listen. He knew she liked black-forest cake, he had asked her that a long time back. He remembered. He also remembered the face of her speechless son when he was asked the same question. However, he was most proud of the gift he had arranged for her: a shawl. He knew she would look nice in it. She came in the room in the evening while all old people were ready to surprise her. They chanted the birthday song to a surprised and wet-faced old lady smiling from ear-to-ear. She cut the cake and loved the shawl. She wore it the entire night. The food she cooked was amazing, everyone liked it. It reminded Sharmaji of his wife’s cooking. After the dinner, most of them went back to their rooms, but the rest sat there and chatted. Sharmaji and Mrs. Mishra went out and sat in the garden outside, while Sharmaji switched on his favorite tape recorder which had old Hindi songs. Both of them sat there talking and singing along with Rafi and Lata.
It was the first time in her ‘life’ that someone planned a surprise for her, ever since Mr. Mishra passed away… the word ‘life’ took a new meaning there for her… a meaning unknown to any human outside the little world in that house. I just can’t wait to write tonight’s letter, thought Mrs. Mishra as she smoothed her hands over the embroidered borders of her new shawl.

just another day

It was a bright sunny day. She wiped the sweat off her face. Just another Sunday… she switched on the TV to see the morning news. The same old stories… She thought to herself, to hear about rapes, murders and even scams right in the morning… made her sick. She moved on to a soap-channel… the same old series which she once liked, but today something made her feel cranky. She switched off, completely disgusted with it, and went to check on the kids… they were fast asleep. She didn’t want to wake them up early as it was the only holiday they had.
Life was very monotonous. The same old routine had followed through the past 20 years of her married life. She had done everything, tried to talk… She even consulted a doctor. She read books and magazines to find ways to spice up the dull marriage. They did not talk at all anymore except for about the kids. She had thought of leaving him but then she stayed for the kids, scared that it might have a bad impact on them when they were young, but now she thought of it as a hustle. He was now more like a roommate than a husband. She started doubting even her love for him, maybe it was not there. Maybe now she is just used to him. She had started to fantasize about other men, and wished her life was like her friend’s. All of them seemed to be happy.
He used to spend a lot of time abroad or on tours, she almost felt as if she lived alone with her kids. Surprisingly she doesn’t even miss him and his presence in the house sometimes irritates her. She had started enjoying the independence too much. He was on an official trip overseas even now and was expected to come anytime this week. He told her the date but she had not bothered to remember.
Something felt odd, as she checked the gas knob thrice since morning. Still feeling uneasy she went in her room and lied down, tried to go back to sleep again, pushing her thoughts away, but sleep wouldn’t come. She took out her drawing board, stuck a paper, threw some colours on the board from the palette and started making random things. She smiled to herself as a thought came to her mind, “Ajeet doesn’t even know that I started painting again.” Earlier she would be upset, even thought that he might be dating someone else. Now she just didn’t care. She just got upset when the kids asked her about their father missing all the college functions. She was mad at him because of the kids, she wanted him to atleast take care of them but he kept running from that also. To her he wasn’t a good husband; neither was he a good father.
She was irritated now.She thought over the years she had become tougher and wiser, but she knew at the bottom of the well of her heart was just a pool of frustration, anger and depression. The only people who made her feel wanted were her kids. She tried talking to her mother, it didn’t help. “You are over reacting” she said. Even her office friends seemed to misunderstand her. Soon she gave up; she had even stopped discussing her life with anyone. There was no use anyway.
She went back to the kitchen and started preparing breakfast.She wanted to make her kids feel satisfied… make them feel special. She made their favourite sandwich and knew they would be happy to eat them. The phone rang; she picked up still dreaming about the expressions of her kids. Before she could say anything, the caller said, in a shivering tone. “Your husband has had an accident, he is serious…” but she could not hear more as the phone slipped down from her hand. A tear trickled down on her cheek; she did love him after all. The doorbell rang. It was Ajeet. The phone call was not for her. He was alive, and suddenly she was so happy to see his face. She hugged him tight as he entered, she did not have the heart to tell him about the call. She slowly said “I love you”… he heard and said “ok”.
She was back in the well of her heart… irritated again by his reply.He could have said “me too” Grr… Angry and hollow, she went to the kitchen to make tea for him,thinking she will leave him as soon as the kids settle down.

Of dreams and damages

I was a normal village girl when I first came to town. The tall buildings, big cars and the street-light hues caught my attention, like I was some five-year old. Unlike my place, there were way too many people here. And not only the number but the fashion of people baffled me; I wondered for a long while initially whether girls wore jeans and pants instead of suits forgetfully, or wear shorter skirts exposing long ‘baits’ for perverted eyes. The place was reeling like a movie every day, enhancing the image I had in mind when I was in the bus on my way here. And best of all, I felt like a fairy-tale girl, lost in a big city, who was sure that dreams do come true. How could I not believe that? Coming here was a dream that I had seen with my eyes closed so many times, it had me convinced that I was prepared for the challenges I might have to face.

I joined work at a call centre. I had passed my 12th class with 95%, and was the pride of my village when I left to be the biggest star from my hometown. Being the only girl in my village who knew English well, my parents were extremely proud of me. Not only was I most that certain my good communication skills in such a foreign language would be the most useful talent I could yield, but I was most fascinated to do a job that applied my said skills. I also got admission in a B.A. (P) course in a college under the University of Delhi. My heart swelled up when I got my first paycheck and earned my college fees myself. I called up everyone back home to share the news, even promised to send some money back if I managed my expenses well. I took up a place on rent with two other girls – Laila and Nisha. We all were in the same course, for which I was a bit glad that I might get help with my studies. We had our differences, but they were nice to me and fairly shared the household chores.

As classes started I got busy with work and college, and the only time I saw my flat mates was on weekends. Every Saturday I made it a point to revise my course material for the previous week and catch up with the assignments. I was a happy and content life. One weekend I was reading my notes when I heard Laila call out to me. She and Nisha were all dressed up in shiny, skimpy clothing. They were going to a club in the night and wanted me to join in. I had never seen a club, wasn’t even sure what it meant. I agreed but wasn’t sure what to wear, so Nisha gave me one of her dresses. It was a knee-length dress; I was very uncomfortable when both Laila and Nisha comforted me. They taught me how to drink vodka shots with a lemon to ‘ease off the hardness’ when you drink it. I didn’t understand what it meant until I tried. I enjoyed it still, because I trusted my friends and it made them happy. The club was nice, everyone was dressed up. There were a lot of couples making out, and I bet they had no clue how uncomfortable they made me feel. Somehow I felt at ease, as people were only interested in themselves. Everyone was drinking, smoking and dancing to the tunes of recent Bollywood tracks. I am not a very good dancer but I had a lot fun. I never saw how time flew by but the party ended late in the night.

This became the new routine for every weekend. We started to keep in touch with the people we used to meet in clubs – no fun without them. And before I could blink, my friend-circle broadened. My life was going so fast that it was difficult to keep a track of time. Happy in the change, I had started to drink all kinds of liquor, even smoking weed. I hardly realized that I had made 5 boyfriends and made out with a zillion random people. Life wasn’t bad at all. My friends supported me in whatever I did. Soon exams came and I was struggling through the books which I hadn’t seen in the entire year. I was not able to understand a bit also as I wasn’t familiar with the lectures. I skipped most of them as I had to meet friends, go for shopping or plan for parties. I failed two of my modules, but my friends consoled me saying it is fine – such great friends I have. I attended many lectures stoned or drunk – it was fun.

Now, I am in an asylum, they say I am crazy, all I need is some cocaine, but they say no to that – can’t they understand? Or was I lost? They don’t even let me meet my mother. I want to tell her that I am sorry for not being around when baba died. I will surely tell her that I don’t like this place when I meet her. I want to go back to the village… with all the green trees, and the smell of muddy soil, and freshly cut crops… and help her with the cooking. They don’t love me here anymore. They don’t even give me good food; just medicines. I am scared they might kill me one day. I am not mad; maybe am becoming now, now that they give me shocks. When I try to run and dance they tie me to the bed and sometimes put me to sleep. I struggle really hard but they don’t let me go. The nurse yesterday told me she would let me go but she wanted something in return. She touched me everywhere. At first I didn’t get it but then she started pushing her body on me. Her rough hands were hurting me but I couldn’t stop her. I was sure today that she would bring ma along with her. But she came today also, alone. She hurt me; put something in me from behind. I bled but it felt worth it, because maybe… I get to see my mother tomorrow.