A Lesson in Survival
“I was sexually abused by the cousin I was closest to,” she had written, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning, and my heart seemed to go silent and still.
It was a Humanities undergrad class, and it was full of girls. They were all perky, mischievous, outspoken and brutally frank. They were also, obviously, not in the mood for an English Literature lecture. I looked around at the class. They stared back at me expectantly.
“Write,” I told them, “about whatever occupies your mind, most of the time.” Instantly there was a chorus of heartfelt groans and protests. Above the din, I stated, “I will be collecting the papers at the end of the lecture. You can keep your contribution anonymous if you wish to.” That sounded more interesting.
“…and if I don’t get the paper, you don’t get attendance,” I said, tongue firmly in cheek.
“Sneaky,” muttered someone in a stage whisper.
So they began writing, though not without a renewed chorus of protests.
I collected all the papers ten minutes before the lecture ended.
I was spellbound by the pieces. The grammatical and syntactical inaccuracies did not matter.
With a maturity that amazed me, all these young women had written of love, loss and change. Some described beloved grandparents, some wrote of affairs of the heart, and some, the sense of desolation they felt at idols that had fallen off pedestals.
But this child’s confession left me reeling.
I didn’t ask her to come and meet me after class. I didn’t ask the name of the anonymous writer.
I spoke about sexual assault and the sense of guilt the victim feels, and the general conviction that they ‘asked’ for it, or that they were responsible for it in some way. I told them ways in which they could say ‘No!’ And mean it. I told them about redressal. And, since this was not the first time, or the last, that I was addressing such issues, I gave them a list of agencies and helplines that could help. I also gave them a list of organisations that conducted free self-defence classes for women and girls.
I left the classroom that day with the feeling that I had helped.
Is that the end of the story?
No.
Five years later, when my sixth book was launched, many of my past and current students attended. Among the people who spoke was a self-possessed young lady, elegant, with a pair of the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.
She walked up to the microphone and said, “I am here today because of an English teacher who helped me change the course of my life.”
And she spoke of how what I had said that day in class helped her re-assess her value systems, get rid of guilt, learn self-defence, and teach all these to others in a similar predicament.
She conducts free self-defence classes in schools and colleges, talks about rape and its consequences, and boldly goes ‘where angels fear to tread.'
Single-handedly, one person at a time, this wonderful young woman is changing an entire generation for the better and helping them live without the debilitating, crippling sense of guilt that eats a person from within.
I felt my heart almost burst with pride and gratitude that day.
…
Such a tiny seed.
Such a rich harvest.
Stay blessed.
