He then lifted my pink frock, removed my inner wears forcibly, and with his tongue invaded my insides -the insides of a little girl, who didn’t know why this was happening to her.Īnd he started plunging his thing inside me, I fainted, not being able to bear the pain. I remember crying but since I couldn’t speak or raise my voice I was only quivering as he forced me to do that. I was damn scared, obviously thinking how a toy could become so nasty and slimy. And he told me I could see the magic only if I put his thing inside my mouth. Curious as I was, I couldn’t wait, until he showed me his 6 and a half inch 'magic stick' popping out of his pants. He caught me and we were laughing until he took me to the store room of my big ancestral home, promising me a magic trick. And I was supposed to hide but I was fooling around. That day, as usual he came to play hide and seek with me. My uncle’s friend, who was my mother’s classmate, was a frequent guest whenever my parents visited India, so he was obviously a trusted person. So my family visiting from India was quite a relief for me from all those monotonous routines of school and home, and obviously the heat of the desert.Īfter I turned 4, during my vacations, my parents had to visit their relatives and I was left with my grandmother. I was born in Qatar, relinquishing in the richness of the Arabic land. I really have no idea what was wrong with me but it was only after my 5th birthday that I could finally address my parents. I have been living with them in some deep and dark corner of my heart, still yearning to let go some day or the other. A dark room or even certain scents reel my memory back in time, to those incidents, scaring the hell out of me. And for almost all of these 24 years, I have been living with tormented memories that cripple my strength and turn it into fear. Yet, they’re reminded every now and then of the trauma and pain they felt, when they come across such instances. Sometimes, they never recover even, or they might push those wretched memories to some faraway corner of their minds. None of these A-holes (apologies for my language) ever realize the trauma these children go through to set their lives back to normal. They are the ones increasingly being tortured, either physically or mentally, or both. But surely, mostly, I am now, scared of being one.īut more than me, it is the children I fear for. ( words) There are times when I am usually proud to be a woman.
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