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She could sense his temper raising. She knew how to bait him. He asked her to repeat, his voice rising, almost on the verge of shouting.
She stood on her fifth floor balcony in her favorite pink color satin gown, waiting for her husband to come back. She was not drunk today, not a single drop. She had an agenda after all. She saw her neighbors walking in the garden, she called them by name and waved at them. When they waved back and asked her to join them, she just smiled.
In a few minutes the main door slammed. The servant had probably opened the door. The servant – he was an important character in her play. He was a witness to all the fights occurring between them night after night, heard every threat he had lashed at her. He knew how his master beat the mistress regularly. How she had had a miscarriage and how she would never have a baby again because of his torture.
She waited quietly, silently. He asked the servant where she was, he pointed to the balcony. She knew the servant would wait for 5-6 minutes before going back to the kitchen. He cared for his kind mistress.
Her husband came and stood by her side, she murmured something. He could not hear her and asked her to repeat. She again looked towards the people walking in the park and waved at them and smiled at them. She again murmured something to her husband. She could sense his temper raising. She knew how to bait him. He asked her to repeat, his voice rising, almost on the verge of shouting.
The servant had gone back into the kitchen. For him it was common enough, his master shouting and his mistress silently suffering it all. People loitering on the ground were trying to avoid looking up, at the usual screaming arising from their apartment. That is high class society, you act as if you cannot even hear when the husband is beating his wife every night.
And before her husband knew, she jumped! She screamed at the top of her voice; she was scared. She had not realized it would be so scary. But in the moments when she lay gasping for her last breath lying in the pool of her own blood, she saw people running towards her from everywhere, some pointing upwards.
She tried to look up with her right eye, as her left eye was filled with blood. She thought she could see the scared eyes of her husband and the angry eyes of her servant staring down at her battered body.
She had taken the perfect revenge, revenge for being tortured for six long years. And the revenge for killing her unborn child.
Image source: shutterstock
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UP Boards Topper Prachi Nigam was trolled on social media for her facial hair; our obsession with appearance is harsh on young minds.
Prachi Nigam’s photo has been doing the rounds on social media for the right reasons. Well, scratch that- I wish the above statement were true. This 15-year-old girl should ideally be revelling in her spectacular achievement of scoring a whopping 98.05% and topping her tenth-grade boards. But oddly enough, along with her marks, it’s something else that garners more attention – her facial hair.
While the trolls are driving themselves giddy by mocking this girl who hasn’t even completed her school yet, the ones who are taking her side are going one step ahead – they are sharing her photoshopped pictures, sans the facial hair, looking nothing less than a celebrity with captions saying – “Prachi Nigam, ten years later”.
Doctors have already diagnosed her with PCOD in their comments, based on photographic evidence. While we have names for people shamed for their weight – body shaming, for their skin colour- racism, for their age- age shaming, for being a female- sexism, this category of shaming where one faces criticism for their appearance has no name. With that, it also has zero shame attached to it.
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