The last few days have been excruciating. Instead of listening to music or indulging in some light reading, I am agitated, browsing Facebook pages and news channels and trying to catch the latest developments. I want justice for the young girl who was gang-raped and left to die.
I am five months pregnant. I am supposed to be calm and stay positive all the time. But how could I? I wonder if the baby in my womb is a girl. Would I be able to protect her? How do I protect her? A sense of deep despair overwhelms me.
Meanwhile, my house-help Rani sits on her haunches and watches television raptly, abandoning her bucket and mop. “What happened didi?” she asked, her eyes glued on the TV set. “A young girl was gang raped by several men and left to die. She is quite critical and fighting for her life in the hospital. People are protesting. I wish I could join them. These demons should be chopped into pieces,” I said vehemently, seething over the atrocity. I didn’t notice Rani’s initial shock followed by her miserable demeanour.
“These are animals, forcing themselves on a girl. The police have arrested two men. Three are still absconding. One of them is a minor. He may go scot-free, ” I add as Rani looks at me wide-eyed. “Are all these people protesting the gangrape? They have abandoned their work for this girl? ” She asks with awe.
Rani was a young widow with a five-year-old son. I had found her sitting near the entrance of our housing complex, looking for work. Her bedraggled appearance and matted hair had not inspired much confidence. A security guard had tentatively recommended her when my house help had suddenly left her job to return to her village for a family emergency.
It was Rani’s keen eyes that had immensely arrested my attention.
Once she started working at my home, she managed to get plenty of work in other households. But she is grateful for that first chance. Today she is dressed in a clean though faded salwar kameez, her hair was well-oiled and in a bun. She turned into a mother hen after my pregnancy was confirmed.
As we watch the television channel tracking the fallout of the gangrape, Rani quietly narrates her own story. Rani was the eldest of four sisters. Her father, a tailor at Metiabruz and her mother who worked as a maid were desperate to get the sisters married off. A neighbour had brought a marriage proposal for Rani who was no great beauty. The groom resided at a village near Etawah in Western UP. They had substantial land holdings and a rich family. Nobody even wondered why they were looking for a girl from Kolkata and wanted no dowry. Nobody in her family even accompanied her. Only her neighbour and her son went with Rani, undoubtedly to collect her hefty commission. Rani wore a new but cheap salwar suit stitched by her father. Once they reached the village and the nikah was performed hurriedly, Rani came to know her husband was mentally imbalanced. I shudder to even think what it meant for a girl of sixteen.
In summer the entire family slept in the courtyard. Only the bride was asleep inside. Her husband was kept under lock and key most of the time.
He was prone to violence.
In deep sleep, suddenly she felt a hand clamping on her mouth. And then felt the weight of a man on her. On that day her hymen shattered not by gentle coaxing of a lover but by brute force. It was her brother-in-law. Before leaving her bed, he had put his mouth in her ear and whispered ” I did not let your wedding night go in vain.”
That was the beginning of her nightmare. Every night he came in, rutting like a bull. It was an open secret in the family. Her mother-in-law kept her mouth tightly pinched. As the only sane son in the family, he held the balance of power in his hands. Rani was the unpaid maid during the day and at night, the sex slave. This went on till Rani got pregnant. Although life was not easy, it became bearable as the household rejoiced. For the first time she had a full stomach instead of being fed scraps. When her son was born her in-laws rejoiced. As the mother of their grandson, she gained respect till things changed again. Her son was about two years old, when one day, Rani was making rotis and fending off her son from touching the oven or the hot utensils. Exasperated, she slapped him. Her brother-in-law was enraged; he pulled her by the hair, beating her black and blue. Rani was stunned by the turn of events. But then she heard the whispers.
Her brother-in-law’s nikah was in two months.
From that night Rani started keeping a rusted scythe under her pillow. By the time her split lip had healed he once again came to her bed at night. This time she yanked out the scythe and held it to his neck and shrieked, ” If you touch me, I will split you in two. It doesn’t matter if I die afterwards but I will ensure you don’t sire a child.” Shocked, he slowly retreated. She saw her mother-in-law melt in the darkness outside. The next day the duo held parleys, debating furiously. Her brother-in-law finally gave in allowing Rani and her son to return home. However, her parents refused her entry into their Metiabruz home. A neighbour who was the security guard at our complex finally brought them to the complex.
I sat stunned. I had never thought Rani would be the one to end my despair. I found strength in her resolve to fight back. Hope rekindled in me.
I will teach my daughter to fight back and if it is a son he will be taught to respect women.
By Anindita Chowdhury
Anindita Chowdhury is a special correspondent of the English daily, The Statesman. She is based in Hyderabad. Apart from reporting, she writes short stories and essays with special focus on history, particularly the social and cultural aspects of the bygone era. She can be contacted at aninditasmail@gmail.com.
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