Fearless

You'll find me sitting in one of the shadiest staircases of this building, a shawl over my head, covering my mouth, exposing only my eyes. I don't like the sunlight very much. I wear a torn black sweatshirt I found in the closet on the ground floor. Black empowers me. Don't freak out; my hands are covered in band-aids and half-exposed perfectly red lines cover the pale skin that I choose to dismiss as the usual.

They usually call me the redhead, but back then it was just a bunch of names that echoed in the corridors of my head, making absolutely no sense to me, and hurling insults that I failed to comprehend; by this man, of course.

He just did not empathize at all.

It's been years since I've spoken about it. For reasons of my own. Mostly because it terrifies me to even think of telling the world about it. But it's time now. And it's not my fault.

I'm 16 now, and I grew up in the middle of a place that I had supposedly been obsessed with calling 'my home'. Only, it turned out to be otherwise. Our house is situated in No. 41, Jamuna Gardens, a little off the road that leads to Andheri West. It's a beautiful house, with enough to keep my always-bustling soul content, with the endless staircases(one shady staircase amongst them), hallways, false ceilings and my ancestors gazing at me, from behind their frames, on the beautiful walls.

I thought I had the most beautiful childhood until both my parents moved outside the country, for work, and left me at my grandmother's place. They never came back, though. People had different versions of it. I grew up at this ancestral house that'd once belonged to my great grandfather. Now that his son was no more, his daughter in law, being my grandmother, signed up to take care of the house.

My earliest memories after that are all super hazy and now wash in and out, in intervals. Out of the 6 days of the week (minus the Sunday), we had one visitor who frequented our house 4 days a week. I witnessed this for 3 years after that. I knew one thing for sure - every single time he left, this visitor took a part of me with him. Hurt me in places he never should have. I felt horrible because as a 14-year-old, I couldn't comprehend what was going on and what I should do about it. I was terrified beyond anything. And this, was every day of the 4 days that he turned up.

I would ask my helper, who herself was 3 years elder to me to wash me clean, scrub the bruises harder until there were more of them. I would lock myself in the bedroom cupboard, feel threatened and not come out for hours together. I felt impure and disgusted and started hating something as sensitive as touch, and most importantly, people around me. Everybody except my close family members. All this, of course, shattered my self-morale and made me feel horrid. I shut myself out from every kind of conversation, and would often end up curling in the armchair, reading something off my late grandfather's bookshelf. My grandmother was taken aback by this change in me. She even questioned it, but both my helper and I chose to stay silent about because we were terrified. And I was ashamed at the thought of letting other people know what I was subjected to. Was this something that generally happened to everyone else? When you're sexually/mentally assaulted as a child, your mind is in a constant turmoil as to whether you really are the only one victimised to the above. And it takes your mind so much time to absorb all the pain and mental stress that's actually even involved.

All of it left me scarred deeper than I could imagine and this happened for three years. Before long, my scars became more visible and the red lines over my pale skin grew redder and I grew thinner, looked worse than ever. My thighs were playgrounds for burn marks and I bled, in rivers. Endlessly. In fact, I cried so much that I got tired, of crying. Tired of people, before I opened up to my grandmother, who, to my surprise became very rigid about it and fired the visitor and reported him to the police and had him arrested - you see he was the house cook. She backed me up and had my statements recorded and for years after that, ensured I came out of it, a much better person.

With time, you will heal. With time, you will learn to look at your undefeated self with pride pouring out of the very marks that made your skin crawl.This is to the survivors who have seen it, been a part of it. All of it.

I'm sorry I'm stirring all those memories you buried in your backyard.

Firstly, it's okay.

It's okay to feel whatever you're feeling. Even if it's making you feel your worst. It's okay it happened. Shh. Don't hate yourself. You're not a bad person. You did not deserve to be hurt, you did not deserve to be treated without consent, you didn't deserve to be subjected to all the pain at that particular stage in life. If you've seen it, let me tell you that there would never be anything more painful than whatever you witnessed, in terms of human beings treating human beings and please legitimately do whatever it takes to not stay quiet about it - a sincere request. If you were subjected to it, you should know that it is not the end of the world, there are much more beautiful things you deserve to be subjected to, so don't give up on yourself. I know it hurts bad, but give it some time. Acceptance is key here. Take your time to process everything that's happened.

Secondly, open up about it.

It doesn't always have to be the police first, it can even be someone as close in your circle as a sister, brother, parents, boyfriend or girlfriend. Whoever is willing to lend a year. Please don't stay away from reporting the matter because against the background of a wicked 21st century-harassment(mental/sexual) is a crime so it definitely deserves the right magnitude of punishment. Let go of your inhibitions and what people would think of you. It's okay to not be able to trust somebody, it's okay even if it takes you years to call somebody your 'friend'. It's okay to flinch when somebody just brushes past your shoulder, it's okay to stay away from toxic masculinity or toxic femininity and feel free to have your own opinion on varied issues and not just walk around with the crowd. It's okay to have a voice. You're entitled to claim your right.

Nobody deserves to deny you of whatever you're entitled to and treat you wrongly and abuse your body. Its something that you've been born with and grown into becoming, so in no way do you subject yourself to abuse-voluntarily or involuntarily.

You should know that better because you're bigger than that. Don't ever give up on yourself and give another person the opportunity to decide for you. Walk away from anything that hurts you,(physically or mentally) and breaks you. You don't deserve that. Well, the society, they'd obviously give you that look of sympathy and disgust, but it's nothing about you, I swear. Learn to let go of opinions that don't matter or wouldn't matter a couple of years down the line.

Lastly, believe in your space. Your spirit. Write your stories, get inspired and write more. Don't limit your thoughts.

Believe in yourself, and give yourself a chance to grow out of bad experiences and painful memories. Never enslave yourself. To anybody else. Love your body. Well, if you can't, start with liking yourself, work on your strengths and become stronger, but build yourself up from your weaknesses. The world will never be kind.

I'm 24 now, and I still say in the same building. Funny how that building is the cause of something that made me grow into who I am, not people behind it. Not my anxiety, nothing but the house and the memories associated with it. My grandmother is no more, but I've grown to take care of myself, being the only child.

I don't like the sunlight very much, which explains why only the eyes are visible in my entire face, everything else hidden away, under the fabric. I wear a torn black sweatshirt I found in the closet on the ground floor. Black empowers me. Don't freak out, my hands are still covered in band-aids and half exposed perfectly red lines over the pale skin that I choose to dismiss as the usual.

But I've grown stronger. Much much better, as a person. Contradicted my own past.

They still call me a redhead and honestly, I'm so happy.

Breathe, you're beautiful. The scars, don't try too hard on getting them off because you're a fighter. Those, are reminders of the injuries you put up with, from your opponent, during the fight. Flaunt them, wear them with pride.

You weren't a victim, you were a fighter. Focus on being fearless and live every day like it's your best. Nobody gets to abuse you, put price tags on you, rate you and throw out cash on you, and abuse your body. It's purely disgusting to even think up about it but it's even saddening that the society fails to see the point. The point of speaking up for their rights and privileges and consent. You should know better.

I'm Naira, signing off, I run an NGO for sexually abused victims that need to stand up on their own two feet, need a different perspective on life, amongst the very same walls of the house I grew up in and honestly, couldn't be more happier. I have little boys who come up complaining of the inappropriate touch and squirm at the thought of it. Little girls with a ruptured hymen at ages like 6 and 8. But I ensure I give them the right life, with their rights and help them find their souls. No 41, Jamuna Gardens is not so shady anymore, after all.

I should really get going now, but I have just one last thing to say.

Take care, love yourself and start becoming fearless. Shed the unnecessary from your skin.

We all have our fears, but it lies in getting over them.

You're much much better than this.