What could be more eloquent than silence?
You almost don’t see her at first.
She lurks in the shadows, unlike the plucky ones who stand in the front, in conspicuous defiance of their own selves, calling out to the oglers. Challenging, laughing, inviting and haggling with the broken men. Even as she marvels at their effrontery, she knows she could never be like them. She’s bound to navigate her way through destiny, soundless and passive. A mute apology for a life.
She clearly remembers the day her voice left her. She must have been five or six, when a man, who called himself her “uncle”, had taken her to a dark alley and done unspeakable things to her. “Talk”, he’d said, “and I’ll cut your throat.” She had kept quiet then. And every time since.
The world, however, was not to be shushed. There were whispers. Her family was ostracized. The school refused to take her back. Her friends wouldn't play with her anymore. Before she was 18, she was married off to a wasted, old man. He gave her two children in three years and passed away in his sleep, leaving her pregnant and penniless.
It’s after 10 pm. She must hurry. She drapes the gaudy sari and puts on the red lipstick, hating her image in the mirror. She kisses her youngest, as he sleeps peacefully. The elder one looks anguished, as if passing through a nightmare. These days, he asks her dangerous questions. Questions that do not lend themselves to easy explanations. At times like these, she’s grateful for her silence.
Before stepping out, she dims the lantern. Kerosene is expensive.
She takes her place at the back of the shady lane, where they can only see her gaudy get-up, not her eyes. Never her eyes, for they might speak. Here, she waits. For a man who’s half-decent. Who wouldn’t spit on her afterwards, to sterilize his stinking guilt.
It’s past 12. The popular girls have been taken, the crowd has thinned. Although she’s tired, she knows she can’t return empty-handed yet again. There are mouths to feed. Suddenly, she hears a commotion. A middle-aged man totters towards the group. The others refuse him. He has too little money on him. Dejected, he approaches her. That leer. A surge of recognition rises within her. For a tiny moment, she thinks she's the same petrified five-year-old in that dark alley. The still-tender, hurting memory reaches out and grabs a dangerous place in her wounded heart.
She nods, as if to say, “I’ll come with you.”
The others scold her. “You’re young, don’t sell yourself short.” She takes his hand and starts walking. Today, she might as well have been deaf.
As they disappear into the dark night, she hums a gay tune.
The next morning, a handful of journalists watch as the police take her into custody. Even with blood on her hands, she radiates peace. Peace, that comes from consoling an old grievance, settling an old score. She politely refuses the black veil they offered her. She would face them all. Why, she could have faced anyone then. Even Him.
Chin up, she meets every single gaze.
As the gods lowered their eyes, even Chastity had to blush.
new.jpg)
