A glimpse into the fate of many female children in India… #SupportTheGirlChild
Blame is an escape. If we gave it a chance, the cunning emotion could turn our lives into a haven. Though what destiny gave us is what we receive. Why keep thirsty for something you will never earn?
My heart keeps on yearning for the one thing in the world that I know I will never get, at least not in this tangible life.
“Let the show begin.”
Five hours earlier…
Silent drops of water cascaded down my cheeks; they whispered my fate to the deaf. From afar, you would have thought we were a conventional family on a road trip away from the chaos of our daily lives. The reality was, that I was being driven straight towards that chaos.
My heart stopped beating.
My soul left my body, and I sent my last wish towards the stars, yet it hit the sky and fell right down.
Within a flash of light, I was standing at the entrance of hell.
“Hello Mrs. Patel, this is my husband Armand.”
It was show time.
My steady smirk plastered to my lips and deep brown orbs clear of any earlier tension, the carefree emotion my face portrayed contradicted the tantalizing fear in my heart.
“This is Jahnavi, my daughter.”
Do what you practice.
I lifted my eyelids, a behavior that demonstrates obedience.
The small smile signified a presence of charm, and the soft chuckle instead of boisterous laughter indicated respect.
To the predators of society I wasn’t human.
I was their prey.
“And this is my son Rian.”
I took my chance and stared into his eyes; my mother always told me,
“Eyes are the windows to the soul.”
But windows can be shut. Eyes reflect emotions that you cannot control. You control what you show but you cannot control what you feel. Dominance was shooting its rays out of the corner of his eyes. They gleamed with power; he knew he had an advantage, and he was going to use that advantage in his favor any way that he could. His snake like-eyes remained focused on their victim as he tried to speak…
“So, child, how old are you?” His mother quickly chirped.
I tried to speak but my father intervened,
“She is fifteen but in a few years she will be ready to wed.”
Mrs. Sharma couldn’t hold her happiness any longer,
“Oh, that is wonderful! Do you know how to cook?”
I tried to voice my opinion again but as usual…
“Oh my daughter knows how to make all the finest recipes — do not worry, your son will be well-fed,” my mother intervened again.
Of course, he will — he will be well-fed with happiness.
With prejudice.
With pride.
With ego.
It’s quite ironic actually, because both my mother and Mrs. Sharma had gone through the same experience — they knew the cruel ways of this mechanical society, yet smiled through the pain, and now thought it was destiny for me to experience the same reality that they had come to terms with.
After all, it is the circle of life.
My act was crumbling.
The inner turmoil was brewing, and it was a sea of emotions I was not allowed to feel.
Independence.
Freedom.
Self-worth.
The shell was cracking,
The facade had fallen.
I was exposed.
A small drop of salt water made its journey down my cheek,
after all, at least this pain makes me feel human.
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