#2. Those screams got stuck to my soul and will release the day my body turns into ashes.
I didn’t want to attend school that day.
I got late and was sitting on the last bench.
I was disturbed from the last night and told Astha, my friend, “my father beat my mother last night. I am feeling so bad.”
I don’t remember what she said to that, but after the seventh lecture, I saw her laughing with a friend while looking in my direction. I didn’t understand what was happening until the other friend came to me and whispered, “Astha told me that your father beat your mother last night.”
I am sure I would have turned scarlet red.
We were barely nine. I don’t blame them. We were too young to understand what domestic violence is.
Even I didn’t know what it was. It just felt extremely bad when that room would be locked up, and my father blared at the top of his voice at mum.
My mum would say something now and then in her defense.
I couldn’t go in, but I remember my father’s voice going to the highest and ending with the sound of him beating my mum, followed by my mum screaming in pain.
People would come to their terraces or doorsteps and listen to everything in silence.
I felt so naked. People would hear my mother screaming and crying and do nothing.
Those screams got stuck to my soul and will release the day my body turns into ashes.
I would see people being silent spectators of my vulnerability, but I could not hide anywhere. I used to be so ashamed of my situation.
I kept standing there crying, waiting for it to get over.
I didn’t do anything wrong, yet I was so scared to see my father after he fulfilled his desires. I saw a monster in him then, and that image is still fresh in my memory.
He might pretend to be an ideal husband and the best father to the world, but I can’t see a human in him anymore.
It was scarier to see my mother, who had a swollen face and bruises all around her body.
I remember seeing marks of his fingers and palm on her back, claiming that he owned our lives. I would run my fingertips along the impression of his fingers while she sobbed.
The next day he would get ready for his office and leave. Come home late, eat, and sleep as if nothing happened.
This cycle would continue for weeks, and I would be the messenger between them.
I had no one to save me from this. My friends never understood such scenarios for which I am happy. May no child go through that. But I was so lonely all those years.
My problems were a little different from others. My relationship with my parents was a little too different from others.
I didn’t experience the same expression of love as they did.
Moreover, I was expected to keep it down low.
I did the same.
But why?
Because it was embarrassing. As if I did anything wrong.
Not embarrassing while doing it, but embarrassing to talk about it.
I didn’t dare to do what I was not allowed to do. I didn’t tell them about what happened in the school every day. Neither did they ask me. I never discussed my heart with them. They didn’t really care.
I used to break into crying over the littlest issues as a child. I still do. People used to call me emotional, and I hated that.
I hated that because it portrayed me as weak, which I was and still am.
I lost my childhood to fights and got traumatized for a lifetime.
I got scared of people, yet needed people to fill the void my parents created in me.
I wonder how long I would have to carry the baggage of my fears and insecurities.
This heart yearns for acceptance which I didn’t get at home.
