For those of you who remember that I wrote a story titled, 'The Confession' and for those of you who don't. I'm Priyvrat!
I remember I was in the third year of my college when I wrote it. That time I lifted a pebble off my chest and after a couple of years today I'll let go of it all. I cannot no longer bear its weight. And having said that I know that I'm not weak but I'm very strong in doing so.
It can be just another story for some of us or for some of us it has the power to communicate something at a deeper level. When I say about communication I mean that 'those people' (I was part of the cohort for years, now I, no longer, am not!) know how it feels because they've gone through it.
It has happened with them but like me couldn't summon up their nerves to write, speak or share this. Maybe some of you might have shared this to one of your best friends, I could not. I do not suggest that you share this on social media. If you wish you should. But I strongly believe that all of you would agree to the fact that somehow there's an urge to speak it out, to let it go.
To let go of this feeling of guilt, of not realising what damage someone has done because 'We're just kids. Weren't we?'. It happened to us and all we did was, we ended up in a loop of questions, beginning and ending with, 'Why me?'
I confess that there were moments when I hated myself, I hated for not sharing this with my family.
It ended, 3 long years of sexual abuse, when my mother heard whispers, when she took upstairs to dry clothes on a very quiet afternoon, (Not joking, those quite afternoons have the potential to knock me off my feet, I can feel it right now when I'm writing this) and sneaked a peek from a window of the room, where she found me undoing my undergarments (and him lying like a bastard so that I can give him oral pleasure while he'll feel me), which was to be rented for but was vacant for the time being.
I cannot say that that bad feeling ended or the worst started. I never heard my mother teaching me anything on this. She did one thing for sure. She slapped me hard umpteen number of times, yelled at me and sent me to tuition. (I can recall almost everyone why I was crying. I remember that I kept on weeping for the whole time I was in the coaching. My tear drops would drop on the notebook and would blur the writing)
She said nothing we just switched to a different colony. That was the solution. Now, I think I did the right thing.
I don't know why but I think that innocent boy did the right thing to not share this with her mother. Maybe he was wrong. But this young man who'll turn 23 in March hasn't done anything wrong in keeping this confession with himself for 15 years.
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I couldn't find someone to whom I could talk about it. I just couldn't. In the final year, I was in a tussle that whether I should share it with one of my friends but I couldn't. I don't know, I just couldn't.
I dreamt of saying, 'I'm Priyvrat in the story' to all my friends to whom I've emailed the story and to https://www.youthkiawaaz.com/ as well but I just couldn't.
[YKA praised the story because it was submitted as a story but they were not convinced as they said it's hard to believe that it's fictional. They asked 'who's priyvrat and will he mind if we're sharing this story' and all sorts of questions. I replied but just thought to let it lie.
I remember this article being submitted for the college magazine and the faculty editor edited the heart of the story and said that now it can be published. Her argument was that that looked more of a porn-or-sexual thing. It won't be accepted right away in this college, son. With all due respect, fuck off!]
I remember only two individuals looking at me intensely and adjudged somehow that I might be that person but I made them believe I'm not. Or think I made them believe.
[Some of you might remember I told you that that the story is inspired from an actual incident: My friend's cousin, who was 15 years old in the 99s, and was raped in DDA flats. (The incident actually happened but it's not inspired by that incident)]
One of them said, 'Is it actually fictional?' and one of them scratched his head and said, 'I think it's you!'. I cannot think of any moment in life where I could've felt that naked. But that was not nakedness of life that was, by all means, the 'lightness of being'.
It took me almost 15 long years to make myself believe that, 'I am not the victim'. To come back to the story, I fictionalised it a bit.
Why I did that?
Around the same time, when I wrote the piece, I was being counselled by the practitioner in our college. I can recall it vividly that when I first took a time-slot for the counselling, I went to talk about a different problem (I was depressed and I think I still am!) but at the end of the 45 minutes time-slot, I blurted it out for the first time in 15 years a thing- a disgusted feeling- which I had with me all this while and I confessed, 'Ma'am I am struggling with something. I can't figure it out. [Almost instantly tears started flowing and my voice broke] I was sexually abused when I was about six!..'
And I wept and wept that's all. I can also recall some seniors raising an eyebrow at me for being in the counsellor's room because everyone thought only 'mad fellows' visit her. They couldn't believe I could have any problem. I appeared to them as talented, fun-loving, jovial and mast.
That day I was convinced that I cannot to the very least share this with my friends. I just thought the way back home 'I shouldn't'.
As a part of the therapy she asked me to write and I just did that. I wrote my feelings but that was not helping me. I wrote it as a story because I wanted to share it with random people as well to know how it feels. It was easy for me because I was into theatres and I passed it off as a story which I've written for a short film. And I bloody convinced them, I did that acting, though. I am not ashamed to confess that.
What I feared?
I confess that I feared being mocked, laughed at. I seriously felt it and I know the kind of environment I was in. It was a very difficult situation to share this thing. I badly wanted to because it was making me uneasy. Nirbhaya happened at the same time. And all I could do was just contemplate on one thought, 'Who's fault was this?', 'Am I a victim?', 'Was I raped?', 'Why did I let him do to me for three long years?'
As far as I know the definition of rape. I was.
As far as I know, I'm neither guilty nor a victim.
As far as I know, I couldn't have done better but let it go.
I confess today that I always wanted a revenge. I wanted to abuse his child. Yes, I did think of it. I thought that would be the best revenge.
Once I saw him, obviously, he couldn't recognise me, he was with his wife. She was pregnant. I could see him care her and helping her to climb stairs to see the doctor. I was there for my medications of bronchitis. And I stared at him once or twice with a disgusted face and I walked out of that clinic.
You know what, I decided to do it. I forgave him. Yes, I did. And I have.
I don't know how it happened but there's this thought which struck me, 'another of 15 years of questioning oneself, at least I can avoid this to happen to his child!'
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All I know is that yet I am not comfortable about sharing this explicitly with my family or about this heaviness which I had for all these years. That is the reason I blocked my whole family-cousins-distant cousins and office people on facebook. Because I just cannot and don't want to share with you. Maybe I am bold by writing this or a coward by blocking these people.
Whatever it is but it was not easy. It was letting yourself free from a self-imposed prison.
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| Time to break the silence. [Image Courtesy: theconversation.com] |
"..That is why it is so important to let certain things go. To release them. To cut loose. People need to understand that no one is playing with marked cards.." ~The Zahir by Paulo Coelho
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