This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 47; the forty-seventh edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.
It’s 2 A.M, and I’m sitting here, writing this.
I know my time is running out, and I need to write this soon, before the dawn breaks.
Before beginning my journey, that is.
As my pen flows on this paper, I know I have no future to dream of. Absolutely.
I’ve known it for a long time now.
Not everyone gets to know that beforehand, I know.
There’s nothing that I need to be afraid of, really.
Still, I fear ridicule and rejection, more than ever.
Still, I fear ridicule and rejection, more than ever.
I’m a lonely soul ; I don’t interact much with my neighbours.
I’m afraid of their questions.
“What did you do to bring this upon yourself?”, their gaze seems to ask.
I don’t want to answer them.
I’m happy to have answered my conscience, so I shy away from them, and their raised eyebrows.
I’m happy to have answered my conscience, so I shy away from them, and their raised eyebrows.
So, it was almost like a fresh raindrop on the dry, arid earth when I learnt that the place where I live has a beautiful library housing the best of the books in many languages.
Needless to say, that has been my paradise for the past few months.
You might ask me why I wanted to drown myself in books, when could foresee no future for myself. Valid question, indeed.
My answer is that, even if there wasn’t a foreseeable future, I had to live through the present, hadn’t I ?
Those wonderful books helped me do that.
Through them , I saw the world beyond the horizons of my thoughts. I read of the pain that people suffered, I saw life as they saw it.
I laughed, cried, sang and danced with them. I laughed to their jokes. When I slept, they gave me company in my dreams.
And helped me sail through my life, the aimless drift that it was.
In all their calm existence, they carry a voice. The voice of silence. And that silence must be heard.
I heard them tell me that I should put this in writing before I embark on the journey.
A story.
A thirteen year old girl . Physically challenged.
She can’t speak; her vocal cords have been dysfunctional since birth.
She can move only her upper torso, and has been confined to the wheel chair since she was four.
She reads a lot, trying to build her world with the words that dance before her eyes.
To her, her widowed mother is the world. And of course, her brother, who’s elder to her by four years , in whose care her mother leaves her , when she goes for work as a home nurse, every morning.
She spends her time, reading, painting , and listening to the radio from where she gathers most of her knowledge.
The evening hours of lessons with her mother are her greatest bliss. Because she loves learning.
And her mother speaks to her silence in a way none else can.
One evening, her mother returns to a silent, deserted home, to see her unconscious.
Her blouse torn open, revealing the budding blossoms of womanhood inside, the mark of teeth evident against the fair skin on her chest.
Her lips wounded ; scratches on the body, indicating conflict.
And blood trickling down ,from between her weak legs dangling helplessly down the wheel chair, and forming a puddle on the white floor beneath.
Shocked, her mother tries to wake her up, while trying to process the images mentally , and praying that the worst hasn’t happened.
When she gains consciousness, she hugs her mother and keeps still, tears streaming down her closed eyes.
Her mother’s questions don’t get an answer.
She stares at the nothingness in front of her in silence.
But her mother understands.
She knows every inch of her daughter, and she knows that her silence must be heard, must be read deep into.
And that it carries meanings, perhaps those that she’d never wish to be true.
Another look at her face confirms her fears.
Later that evening, when her son returns home, she confronts him.
Questions him about his sister. About what has happened to her.
In an inebriated state of mind, he admits to having raped her.
“What’s she useful for, anyway? I just had some fun,“ he says, numbing her senses.
The words her son has just mouthed throw her into a fit of rage, and it is a matter of few minutes before she finds a knife that she inserts deep into his stomach , taking away the very life she bestowed him with.
The scream that’s born in his throat dies on his lips, as his eyes widen in the horror of the realization.
She’s seen the trust shatter.
Her own womb betraying its kin.
Lust overpowering love.
Her own womb betraying its kin.
Lust overpowering love.
And motherhood holds greater meaning to her now.
The next morning, when the law arrives, she admits to the murder.
The last private conversation that she has with her daughter, before the nuns from the convent take her to their orphanage, is a promise, that the truth would remain silent.
She’s satisfied that she answered her conscience . She doesn’t seek protection from the law.
She’s just a mother who killed her son , probably because he found out about her secret affair - that’s the society’s version of her story.
She doesn’t worry that she’s been awarded the gallows.
She knows her daughter is now safe, at the new home.
She’s happy that she could read through her daughter’s silence.
That she didn’t leave it unseen.
And this is the message that she leaves behind, that every single silent tear is important.
That silence, must always, be heard.
Do you think the mother wasn’t justified in her deeds ?
Even if you do, I don’t think so.
That’s why I killed my son the moment I knew he had seen my daughter as a fruit to feed his lust.
That’s why I look forward to the noose that’s awaiting me , as the dawn breaks.
I made sure her silence had been heard, in the way I could.
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