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How the modern Indian educated woman, who is visibly independent on all other fronts, succumbs to domestic violence in the confines of her house.
I am a hard nut to crack. I believed it when my husband got admitted in the hospital with a laceration in his skull, when a head-butt failed to open my skull, but split open his scalp instead. It would have been easier for him to use his fist, had it not been caught by me in time. Yes the right timing, it has its boons.
I coaxed him – he said. And I believe him. I have always believed him. He is one of those people who can convince anyone, with the right play of words, that the scorching yellow Sun is actually a Full Moon. And it is very easy to turn a believer out of me who is so miserably in love with him. Yes, love can be that blind.
I believed him twelve years back when he had made me see that my promising bank career will deprive us of the fruits of a happy married life. I believed him the other day when he explained to me that my face is sagging hopelessly and would look ugly if I tie my hair high.
So today I am in the ward, standing awkwardly with a little stoop so that I can hear him properly as he is lying on bed with his soft head bandaged in soft cotton wool, restricting the movement of his jaw to the desired length. Listening patiently to his accusations that I screwed up his life, his career, his family—I am thinking of the memory of that ‘once-upon-a-time-hug’ that had drowned me once in unspeakable emotions.
I catch the eye of a man sitting five-beds apart. I am sure he must be thinking how lovable we are, a wife fretting over her husband with concern and husband cooling her down. Ha! I bet next he is going to accuse his wife for the lack of required emotions.
Strangely I am not angry with him. I am finding some kind of a satisfaction in the fact that he hit me. May be, this will make him soften towards me, may be it will help me concentrate on one issue and forget about other petty complaints. In fact, I am feeling guilty that my skull was so hard that it cracked his head.
My fingers moved reflexively to caress the egg on the left side of my head, and I praised myself for lifting my head at the right time – otherwise, my poor cheekbone would have taken the impact and the injury marks would have spilled the beans.
Thank god, our secret is safe in my skull, under the covers of my shabby hair. He saw me smile and scorned with loathe, ‘I know you are enjoying this. This was your game plan from the beginning, to cripple me and ruin my career’. I took a deep breath and smiled again.
Reading this if you are thinking that I am some poor, uneducated Indian wife, then I must tell you, in ‘daylight’ I am a different person altogether. I write passionately about Women’s Rights – hold debates over importance of gender equality – participate in torch-light processions at India Gate – counsel my maid on women empowerment when her alcoholic husband poofs up her salary.
I am a highly educated woman, earning a handsome salary and holding a good position in the outside world. I am a modern woman, who is well aware of her surroundings, well aware of her capabilities and well aware of the length of the rope to which she is tethered.
Through this diary-entry (expressed through fictitious characters but real life stories) I am trying to highlight:
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Vartika Sharma Lekhak is a published author based in India who enjoys writing on social issues, travel tales and short stories. She is an alumnus of JNU and currently studying law at Symbiosis Law School, read more...
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Women today don’t want to be in a partnership that complicates their lives further. They need an equal partner with whom they can figure out life as a team, playing by each other’s strengths.
We all are familiar with that one annoying aunty who is more interested in our marital status than in the dessert counter at a wedding. But these aunties have somehow become obsolete now. Now they are replaced by men we have in our lives. Friends, family, and even work colleagues. It’s the men who are worried about why we are not saying yes to one among their clans. What is wrong with us? Aren’t we scared of dying alone? Like them?
A recent interaction with a guy friend of mine turned sour when he lectured me about how I would regret not getting married at the right time. He lectured that every event in our lives needs to be completed within a certain timeframe set by society else we are doomed. I wasn’t angry. I was just disappointed to realize that annoying aunties are rapidly doubling in our society. And they don’t just appear at weddings or family functions anymore. They are everywhere. They are the real pandemic.
Let’s examine this a little closer.
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