The Man I Hardly Knew.

Chapter eleven.

It's mid winter. The wind howls announcing cries of agony to the country. Death pale clouds of winter cold hover in the sky- blunt and vigorously. In the morning, they hung barely moving. But at night, it is not the same. Thick asphyxiating air with the farfetched clouds brushing against and camouflaging the stars gives birth to downbeat feelings. It feels as cold as the shattering of the winter's teeth. The breeze whips dust into eyelashes and onto exposed skin. One cannot dare go for a walk, out in the streets without wearing a jacket. But I did it.

Shivering, crossed- arms and bare feet, I walked up the lonely streets of Delhi with turmoil in the mind. Cars went rushing by my side horning to get me alarmed to walk on the pavement. One of the drivers even shouted: "Oye. Madam-ji. Are you mad or what? Did you get my car only to commit suicide? Go to the side!" I did not respond and kept walking straight. Sheraad's words twirled in my mind. I had no idea what provoked me to take such a step. I did not care about its consequences. I did not care to think about it. What I felt like at that moment can never be equaled. I felt like I was nothing but a walking misfit in this often sprinting and negative world. For once, the idea did come to me that I should put an end to this life; that I should let everything go- But then with the image of my parents' smiling faces in the eyes, I retracted back.

On coming home, I was locked in a room with the beast equipped with his sanguinary belt. I shouted. I screamed. I struggled to escape but no one came to my rescue. No one heard my voice. Only the walls were witness of the crimes being committed inside the room. I implored you to cease but you did not. I begged you to believe but you did not. I asked you to listen but you did not. I tried to tell you that I was harassed but it went unheard. More than my voice, your ego was prominent to you. More than my brooded cries, your blind anger was given the upper hand. I wondered if for once, you had heard my voice; if for once you had paid attention to what I had to say, what would it have cost you? Not a penny right? So why is it always so hard for you to listen to me? All I wanted to tell you was someone else dared touch your property. Yet, you did not listen. 


And now shaking with a heated body after being beaten like forever, you do not even look at me once. You walk around in the room repeating the same thing that I am no good to you; that you regret being married to me. I abnormally shatter even more at this sentence. I do not think that I have a different opinion. I do not think that I am happy either to be with you. When I was given to you after the marriage had been concluded as successful, I knew that something was amiss. The feeling that I had- incomplete and agitated was just the uneasiness a slave feels before being sold to the master. Now I understand why I felt a mandatory part of the puzzle had gone missing when you had taken the sacred rounds with me. While each round symbolically represents a promise made to each other, neither of us meant any. I was not happy to be married. Perhaps, that missing gist was love. And this is that one thing that is not even mentioned when it comes to us. Perhaps, all we have to offer to each other is only hate. Perhaps, we were not meant to be. And perhaps, things were never meant to be mended between us.

I sob even more when he comes back and threatens to make me sleep on the balcony. Feeling my swollen lips and scarred body, today I do not hate you. I do not curse you. I only reflect on my existence and what I did wrong to deserve you. Sometimes I feel the urge to take action against you but then god knows what retracts me from the idea. One thing is sure it is not just the idea of hurting mum Anita's feelings and crashing through her principles, it is something else;  something that I do not know yet. Glancing at my body again, letting my fingers run through the swollenness, I come to the conclusion that this body is not mine. Mine was never scarred. Mine was never whipped to the bones. When you'd run your hands onto my skin, you would always feel the softness and delicacy of it and not such dirty big scars. This body has now become a grave in which i am steadily being buried. I simply cry my sadness out. I must be the most unfortunate girl to be blessed with an unmerciful beast who finds pleasure in making me bleed. The sight of blood on my skin perhaps makes you grin. I wonder if it would make you smirk as much if I did the same to you?