It Started When I Was Seven

When I was seven, my relative grandpa touched me in inappropriate parts of my body. I didn't tell anyone, because he asked me not to. Not that he actually raped me, but maybe he wanted to, who knows? 

He said, "You love this grandpa, right?"

I was too young to get what he meant. I played along, even when I didn't want to. 

"Yes, grandpa."

"Let's go to that dark room, and I'll cuddle you a little. Don't tell anyone, yeah? This is our little secret, cause I love my Putul."

That's when it started. 

I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone, even when my senses had kicked in. By the time, I knew that it's wrong, he was already dead. I don't know if it's a good thing or bad, but if he hadn't died of cancer, I would've killed him. 

I'm still processing the sexual abuse at the age of 18, and even after the man being dead, I hate my body. I don't know if I am allowed to speak about it in this patriarchal society, but if I'm not, is that what you call "independence"? Is that what Netaji and Gandhi worked for? Is that the 'free India' we're dreaming of, where anyone has to think more than ten times before expressing their views, where a gay or lesbian is beaten to death for marrying the same gender, and where 'feminism' stands nowhere?

Maybe it's time we stop telling the story other people have forcefully written for us, and instead tell our own stories. 

#freeIndia