“Didi I will never go to a college which is out of my town as my mother insists. I will intentionally perform the worst I can, in my board exams and take admission in a local college.”
I woke up with these words resounding in my head. The image of that little girl wearing a pink tiara on her head is still vivid in my head. I met her a few years ago in the train heading to New Delhi. She questioned me about my purpose of going to Delhi and I informed her about my college there. That is exactly when she whispered those words in my ears making sure her mother – who sat opposite to us – could not overhear our conversation.
Initially, I took it as a stubborn wish of a 15 year old but I was proven wrong at judgements; brutally wrong, as the journey advanced. She poured her heart out to me. Not that I interrogated, but that she was too lonely and in this huge world. Or maybe, too scared to share it with people who met her every day.
“Didi, my father beats my mother a lot. My mother too, retaliates and sometimes even I infringe, but then he beats us both. Beats us more than before. Didi, he burns my mother with cigarettes. He abuses her, he abuses my brother, all the relatives from my mother’s family also me at times. He doesn’t even earn. Whatever he gets, he drinks it or smokes it.
But, God doesn’t punish him. I dislike God, Didi”
I gulped in some saliva.
My throat had dried listening to the story of this 12 year old who lived in such a huge city like Pune but still so helpless.
“Why doesn’t your mother complain about him? Or get a divorce?” I probed.
“She did once! But my father was let out of the jail within three days. They said that they could not keep him for long. We were supposed to take him to a higher court but my mother was too good for that, Didi. She melted at the sight of my father being in room so small that one could not even stretch properly and decided to forgive him. But my father started with the torture once again after a few weeks. My brother was taking his X board exams, Didi”
“And, divorce?”
“No divorce. Our house is built on a plot which is registered under the name of both my parents and my father is not ready to leave his plot. Neither can my mother pay him for that part since she has to breed a son who studies abroad and also me, her demanding silly daughter who troubles her a lot. Or, even if she does, by applying for a loan; there is no guarantee that my father will never come back to torture us. Even the police doesn’t take the guarantee.” She muttered in a single breath and suddenly paused as if sighing over something she had remembered.
“I hate this system didi. I hate the police. Why can’t they take a guarantee? What else are they for? They don’t work without a favour and money. They work only for famous people” she continued. “I have decided. I will never go to a college out of Pune like my brother did. I will live with mumma. Who knows if that man kills her when she is deep in sleep? No one will help her, didi. No police. No neighbour. Neighbours are too afraid and police, too greedy,” she untangled and slept.
“I have seen bruises and cuts on my mother’s arms. I am never leaving my mother... Never leaving her alone”
Slept, a peaceful sleep.
Probably the kind of sleep she won’t be blessed with that night when she reaches the same roof wherein her father lives.
A tear trickled down my cheek when I saw her sleeping; and to much surprise, the girl did not break down even once.
Her eyes reflected strength.
She had told me, “Didi I have cried a lot but I always made sure my mother doesn’t catch me sobbing. She’d hate to see me crying. She will die a little more inside and fall apart. I don’t want to add up to her worries hence; I have completely stopped shedding tears now. That monster doesn’t deserve it. My mumma tells me I am strong’’
Indeed, she was strong.
Strong enough to take decisions like supporting her mother.
Strong enough to comment on the system.
Strong enough to understand the world at the tender age of twelve.
