You could mistake them for just another happy family, living in a tiny village in the outskirts of Kolkata. They had all the right trappings – a smiling mother, a demure but welcoming grandfather, a gentle grandmother and a quiet, well brought up child.
I would not have known otherwise, had I not known their story. It was not a unique story, but it was singular because it was their story, which they had agreed to share with us. And it was only then, when you looked closer, you could see that the child hardly smiled. His eyes looked glazed over, as if he was in a far away place. The mother, you would realize, smiled too much, as if to hide some deep dark pain, which threatened to engulf her. She had survived a brutal and torturous marriage, being raped by her husband (once, even in front of his friends as amusement) and abused by her in-laws. Things came to a head, when pregnant, she was locked up in the kitchen, and the cylinder fumes were released in an attempt to kill her. The primeval will to save the unborn child and herself, gave her the super human strength to kick in the door, and escape to her parents house. After many months of legal battle, and with the support of a local NGO, she was able to get a divorce and put her husband behind bars, even though he was released shortly after.
When I met them, a few years had passed. The boy had just started going to school and she was working as a nurse at a local hospital, independently contributing to the family’s meager income. A small operation had made her home bound for the past few weeks, but she was impatient to start work again. We were doing a story on rape survivors and the NGO had put us in touch with her. She was eager to share her story and wanted to speak out against the injustice and violence, which had almost killed her. As we started talking, I could see the fire in her eyes, the determination and strength, which had brought her through her ordeal. But then suddenly, she stopped mid – sentence. Her eyes glistened and she motioned that we be silent. The quiet of the village afternoon was rudely interrupted by a loud grating male voice. There was someone in the other room, shouting at the girl’s mother. Our friend, immediately left the room, asking us not to come out. She was visibly terrified. The interview ended there. We heard the man’s accusing voice threatening her and questioning her right to speak with us. Though I never saw the man’s face, his voice sent shivers down my spine. Even as I write this, I can feel the hair at the back of my neck stand up.
After a few minutes the voices stopped and a completely transformed woman came out meekly from the other room. Gone was the confident, determined fighter I had known just a little while back. Her eyes were misty, she apologized profusely, and told us that we had to leave. She explained that she was engaged to be married to another man, who had ‘accepted’ her, in spite of knowing her past. Even though he was much older, he was well off and would take care of her child and herself. He was, she said, the one who had paid for her operation and she owed him a lot. He did not approve of her talking about the ‘incident’ as he called it. She had agreed to meet us because she did not think he would come home so soon. But he somehow got wind of our coming and was now furious with her. We tried to explain to her that she was only getting back into a situation, which she had fought so hard against with her first marriage. Her second husband to be, seemed no less a monster than the first. I could see in her eyes that she knew it too. And that is what terrified her. Even though her eyes told another story, we had no choice but to leave, wishing her the strength to fight the social taboos which compelled her to fall into the same trap again.
As we reluctantly left, what remained with me, was the glazed look in the little boy’s eyes as he quietly watched the sunlight make patterns through the iron gate of his fragile home.
As a woman I feel it too, but cannot comprehend, what is it that makes rape a woman’s shame and not the man’s, and why I must protect her name, her face, her identity, so that she is not shamed further. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced, that in this somewhere, lies the root of the evil.
