Damini’s diary.…..

As the world prays I survive, I perish- I pray!

PAIN UNLIMITED

HISHMA NAZIR

An hour of white robes, a day of mourning, a week of protest, a month of remembrance and ‘nothing ever happened’…. The pigeon sheds a feather as my story reaches its spine, people gather at the crossing to protest my savagely murder as I lay here tightly gripping the bed sheet, with quivering lips and closely shut eyes. I am choked, I want to shriek and mourn my pitiful present, the inner screams of my tormented soul cascade ruthlessly down my body yet fail to pass beyond; I never heard silence this loud! As I struggle to open my eyes which have been soaked in the delicacy of my father’s dreams, my lids shut down automatically, for the reality of my present is too harsh for my eyes to face. I am brutally murdered, I suddenly become a headline of the kind any girl wouldn’t ever dream of, I am mourned upon by the whole nation and equally suddenly would I be forgotten too, I know. My soul weeps out in the darkness of my pitiful present, shrieking out loud to be heard, seen and let out- only to face the echo of its own screams; I indeed never heard silence this loud!
The restless soul of my peacefully laid body would dolefully roam down the streets I was born in, along the paths I dreamt of being to and through the alleys my soul was robbed off- leaving me acceptable to none. Like any girl, I too dreamt of being popular and known far and wide. With the kind of name I have now gained, I feel like living a life of that girl in the slum in filth and destitution and be known to my family and my family alone! My life now is like that night of hopelessness and helplessness you await to end sooner than soon. Silence, solitude and darkness suddenly become home. That something inside me chained struggles to shriek out loud to relieve the weight of my tormented soul, pacify myself with the echo of my own screams and retire gradually to an endless sleep. The mirror appears an enemy for it reflects my reality- which will float unaccepted till my heart beats its last. As I raise my head, my eyes for the first time can’t gaze into their reflection; what used to be held high with pride falls gradually to acute. My soul dies a death everytime it comes in terms with its present and I am long dead before the doctors declare me so!
Till the culprits of my savagely brutal murder are hanged to death, my oppressed soul would continue to be oppressed, innumerable times in ways innumerable when a girl is teased, a lady is harassed, a woman is raped or a wife is tortured. You talk of freedom and preach of freedom but do not let act so freely. It is easy to talk of nouns; ‘freedom’, ‘security’ and equally difficult of having them in the verb; no woman could proudly narrate of being ‘free’ and ‘secure’. Delhi lightened its lanes with candles to express social awakening to heinous crimes; the same lanes turned dark when asked for help at the critical hour. People in spacious cars didn’t bother to lift two helpless youngsters in dying conditions up to a hospital, back home they relax a while, change and take to streets to celebrate a Diwali with lighted candles! They suddenly protest my rape in their leisure time! Lighting candles won’t help; try to awaken your conscience which is in a dark, deep slumber.
Of having survived in a country like India, I would have soon been dreaming a dream; of being viewed like an ordinary girl in the crowd just like the one standing next to me is; of being counted as just another human being! I would have been struggling to show the world that I still can sense and feel, that when they pinch me I still get hurt, I still possess those five senses; I still am a human! With the doctors declaring the tottering body of my long dead soul, critical, their line becomes a headline there in my nation…. As the world prays I survive, I perish-I pray!
And finally the chilly air enters my lingering body for once to never leave back; I breathe my last. Thank you God, I am dead for I know the people who today lit candles down the streets, shrieked out slogans at the top of their pitches and were flamed into anger are the ones who tomorrow, if I somehow managed to survive, would cast shameful looks on me and view me not like a human but a hoodoo for themselves and the nation. The girls in my neighbourhood would be threatened of being accidentally found anywhere around me. I would be denied a normal, respectful life. I am happy, I am no more. I am leaving the streets of this city to never come back to the horrifying lanes of my past. But, I would choose to be reborn in this nation- ‘my’ nation if my death turns out to be a sacrifice in ensuring that no Damini meets a similar fate, in the history of this country, ever again.

Lastupdate on : Sun, 20 Jan 2013 21:30:00 Makkah time
Lastupdate on : Sun, 20 Jan 2013 18:30:00 GMT
Lastupdate on : Mon, 21 Jan 2013 00:00:00 IST




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