Yes! Here it is..
Maya.
She was, as usual, sitting at her desk. Just as quietly as ever. The two invalids near her would always notice. She could hear them talk behind her back. One would say, "Do you see her back?" "Of course! I see the marks", the other would reply.
"Why do you think she let's him do it?"
"Oh! There are plenty of this kind in the country"
"But look at her, would you? She's pretty, beautiful, intelligent. She can earn her own living without him. She is not dependent on him at all."
"But she is"
"For what? Love? *loud wicked laugh* God! She'll kill herself someday"
"You don't get it, do you? She's the kinds who won't move away from him. It's just like how parasites breed on trees and then you can not differentiate which is the benefactor and which is the beneficiary. Women like her don't need independence. They bear everything due to lack of motive. I read an article the other day about them. They are all called "victims". They ideally should stop it. But they won't"
"Damn! You're so right"
And thus, their lives would continue, unaffected.
They never knew she could hear them. It would hurt. But she was used to it anyway. She only wished that they did not know as much. She would not want anyone to think ill of him.
She never knew what grabbed her when she first saw him, at her mother's house, for the entire wedding deciding procedure. He looked at her steady and simple. She knew he could protect her from all harm (ah! little did she know). And he owned her since then.
He had this proprietory look in his eyes. Like he knew she'd be good for him. Like he knew they could go old together. "He's pretty short-tempered," his mother warned, "be sure marrying him would be a tight-rope walk."
And that was that. They were married. Maya wasn't aware of what awaits her. She was happy about it. She was looking forward to spending her life with him. And well, this is what happened:
He came forth, touched her and she shivered. You can't blame her, can you? She was a stranger to a man's touch, hitherto. And was so fragile, almost like glass. Whereas, he was a full-time rugby player. Never had he touched anything with care or caution. He did not expect that reaction. In a bizarre moment of over-flow of endorphin and adrenalin all over his system, he did what he could do best, try to snatch what he believed was his own. Well, he hit her, not willingly - of course. He did not know what to do. You can't blame him can you?
Since then the only physical relationship they shared was the ordeal of him hitting her. Honestly, he never wanted to do so. But he did not know how to react otherwise. Honestly, no one ever knew what was it. He wanted to be able to care for her, love her, want her. Nobody could deny he did. But they just could not talk. Most times, he would be at home waiting for her, eagerly with all the love he ever had. She would arrive, cook and they'd then sleep. However, sometimes she'd arrive late, sometimes she'd wait on her way to talk to neighbors, sometimes she'd cook little too less food, sometimes too much, the food was never prepared the way he liked it and even if it was, she'd not serve it well, sometimes she'd not prepare the bed good enough. There always was something or the other that she'd do wrong that would make him loose it. And he did not know a way to talk to her other than by his hand. He knew, he always knew that he could do better. But his anger always got the best of him. One could always wonder why did she not talk about it though. One could even believe he'd hit her just to hear her speak. She never even spoke about anything to anyone else.
Her days would begin in the same fashion. She'd wake up, moving muscle by muscle in order to not wake him up. She'd wrap cotton around her wrists because he never liked the noise her bangles made, he'd definitely totally detest waking up to the noise.She'd cook for him, cover the food as she never knew when would he eat. She'd then quietly slide into bathroom while he's probably just pretending to sleep, and most times she'd dab the water with a towel on her body to avoid the splashing echo of water on the tiles. Before getting out, she'd look at herself carefully, wrapping the saree around her shoulder in the perfect manner to hide all bruises, applying a second layer of concealer on the scars on her face. Then, she'd hurry out, the comb in her hands to tie her hair on the way to the bus. Boy! She was really scared of spoiling his day.
In the bus, she'd worry for him, hoping he's had the food in time, hoping the water was warm enough for him to bathe, hoping everything in his day was just about right so that he is not burning with rage when she has to see him in the evening.
Her office was a crowded one. All she had to do the entire day was to file insurance papers in order. There were a lot of people, but it was never mandatory to talk. She never made friends, shared meals, took interest in office gossip or attended gatherings. There were men who'd be waiting for occasions where they needed some paper filed by her, just so that they could see her look at them with her pretty eyes. Many would bribe the peons to move their desks every diwali a little closer to her. She never spoke a word, unless absolutely necessary. Some random neighbor who once worked with her would spread her personal life around. She knew they spoke about her. She heard them talk behind her back and mysteriously stop the minute she turned her face. She'd not mind at all. Frankly speaking, it made her feel special. It was her only reason to find time to chuckle to herself. And when the clock would tick 6:00, she'd quietly walk out to the bus stop. This was the most amusing part of her day. She was not to worry about things that have already happened in the day, she was to prepare herself for what lay ahead of her. She had defined her charms, an empty seat in the bus would mean that he would not beat her up today, a smile on the way back home would mean that he would not hit her face, sight of a dead dog generally meant that he probably would not be home or would have slept by the time she reaches.. someone wearing white on the way means he'll definitely like the food today.. It was that easy. One of these signs and she would be amused by herself.
These charms were her work of extreme calculations worked upon trial and error and had about a 70% chance at accuracy. They, honestly, were her best achievement.
Everyday that she reached the bus stop, she'd consider boarding a different bus to an unknown place. She'd wonder how bad the life could be to survive without. Sometimes, she'd take the bus with the longer route to avoid reaching home. But just like how birds who have the liberty to soar wide and far, yet they get back to the same nest at sunset,so would she.
She'd come home and cook again. Most times waiting to be hit so get over the fear. She'd wait for him to come to her and drag her to the bedroom so then he could hit her all he wanted. He would always do that, you know. He'd always drag her to the bedroom, sometimes with a firm grip on her hair, as though it was some work of divine passionate love-making. Sometimes, he'd hit her till she would fall asleep on the floor, she'd wake up the next day, like nothing happened.
Today, it was a tad too different. She had managed to burn the meal last night and he hated the oily smoke. She had been hit with a tablespoon and had straight marks all over her back. She was so tired that she could barely walk. She somehow had managed to work her way to the end of the day, but she could not stand her timid fright anymore. She had decided she'd talk to him and end her misery and if necessary, walk out (even she knew that was not to happen). She had decided that she'd tell him not to hit her. Tell him that she understands that he gets angry and doesn't know what to say, yet hitting wasn't necessary. She wasn't sure of how would he react. She almost enacted that in her head multiple times, each time with stronger words and she imagined it ending with his arms around her waist and she could cry her heart out to him. She did not want what had happened till now and she did not feel it needs to continue. Neither did he. She had seen it in him. She did realize though that in all the time that they have been married, they had hardly spoken. She had heard his voice when he spoke to others, but there hasn't been a conversation between the couple. Strange, one might think.
However, when taking the flight of stairs, fear gripped her again. Fear of the uncertain, the silence, the what-not. She knew that this wasn't normal. She had been afraid every day. But today was a tad too different. Almost unwillingly, she keyed the door, but it was unlocked. She opened the door and she saw a pool of blood with him in the middle of it, on the floor. It was then when she realized that she was too wounded to scream for help. She ran, with whatever strength she had to him and tried to pull him to life. Even with the floor too slippery with the blood, she couldn't move him an inch. She started crying out loudly. But what do you know, the neighbors must have thought that he is hitting her again.
She was there, helpless. He was there, too. He wasn't dead. There had been, most definitely, an accident. She knew not what happened. She knew not what to do. She knew not how to panic. She was, one may say, subjected to pain everyday; and as it is said, one does not get allergic to something to which one is exposed to on a regular basis.
Most loves are like that. It's like an over-crowded lifeboat. You need to throw stuff one-a-time to keep it afloat. So you throw your pride, self-respect and your independence, in that order. It is sinking still. After a while you start with people: friends, family, people you once knew and cared for. Yet, it's never enough. Nothing ever is. The lifeboat is still sinking. And then finally, you drown with it.
The end.
It was long pending. I needed to make a few corrections, I know. But this is the way it is.
Take care.
See ya around.
Maya.
She was, as usual, sitting at her desk. Just as quietly as ever. The two invalids near her would always notice. She could hear them talk behind her back. One would say, "Do you see her back?" "Of course! I see the marks", the other would reply.
"Why do you think she let's him do it?"
"Oh! There are plenty of this kind in the country"
"But look at her, would you? She's pretty, beautiful, intelligent. She can earn her own living without him. She is not dependent on him at all."
"But she is"
"For what? Love? *loud wicked laugh* God! She'll kill herself someday"
"You don't get it, do you? She's the kinds who won't move away from him. It's just like how parasites breed on trees and then you can not differentiate which is the benefactor and which is the beneficiary. Women like her don't need independence. They bear everything due to lack of motive. I read an article the other day about them. They are all called "victims". They ideally should stop it. But they won't"
"Damn! You're so right"
And thus, their lives would continue, unaffected.
They never knew she could hear them. It would hurt. But she was used to it anyway. She only wished that they did not know as much. She would not want anyone to think ill of him.
She never knew what grabbed her when she first saw him, at her mother's house, for the entire wedding deciding procedure. He looked at her steady and simple. She knew he could protect her from all harm (ah! little did she know). And he owned her since then.
He had this proprietory look in his eyes. Like he knew she'd be good for him. Like he knew they could go old together. "He's pretty short-tempered," his mother warned, "be sure marrying him would be a tight-rope walk."
And that was that. They were married. Maya wasn't aware of what awaits her. She was happy about it. She was looking forward to spending her life with him. And well, this is what happened:
He came forth, touched her and she shivered. You can't blame her, can you? She was a stranger to a man's touch, hitherto. And was so fragile, almost like glass. Whereas, he was a full-time rugby player. Never had he touched anything with care or caution. He did not expect that reaction. In a bizarre moment of over-flow of endorphin and adrenalin all over his system, he did what he could do best, try to snatch what he believed was his own. Well, he hit her, not willingly - of course. He did not know what to do. You can't blame him can you?
Since then the only physical relationship they shared was the ordeal of him hitting her. Honestly, he never wanted to do so. But he did not know how to react otherwise. Honestly, no one ever knew what was it. He wanted to be able to care for her, love her, want her. Nobody could deny he did. But they just could not talk. Most times, he would be at home waiting for her, eagerly with all the love he ever had. She would arrive, cook and they'd then sleep. However, sometimes she'd arrive late, sometimes she'd wait on her way to talk to neighbors, sometimes she'd cook little too less food, sometimes too much, the food was never prepared the way he liked it and even if it was, she'd not serve it well, sometimes she'd not prepare the bed good enough. There always was something or the other that she'd do wrong that would make him loose it. And he did not know a way to talk to her other than by his hand. He knew, he always knew that he could do better. But his anger always got the best of him. One could always wonder why did she not talk about it though. One could even believe he'd hit her just to hear her speak. She never even spoke about anything to anyone else.
Her days would begin in the same fashion. She'd wake up, moving muscle by muscle in order to not wake him up. She'd wrap cotton around her wrists because he never liked the noise her bangles made, he'd definitely totally detest waking up to the noise.She'd cook for him, cover the food as she never knew when would he eat. She'd then quietly slide into bathroom while he's probably just pretending to sleep, and most times she'd dab the water with a towel on her body to avoid the splashing echo of water on the tiles. Before getting out, she'd look at herself carefully, wrapping the saree around her shoulder in the perfect manner to hide all bruises, applying a second layer of concealer on the scars on her face. Then, she'd hurry out, the comb in her hands to tie her hair on the way to the bus. Boy! She was really scared of spoiling his day.
In the bus, she'd worry for him, hoping he's had the food in time, hoping the water was warm enough for him to bathe, hoping everything in his day was just about right so that he is not burning with rage when she has to see him in the evening.
Her office was a crowded one. All she had to do the entire day was to file insurance papers in order. There were a lot of people, but it was never mandatory to talk. She never made friends, shared meals, took interest in office gossip or attended gatherings. There were men who'd be waiting for occasions where they needed some paper filed by her, just so that they could see her look at them with her pretty eyes. Many would bribe the peons to move their desks every diwali a little closer to her. She never spoke a word, unless absolutely necessary. Some random neighbor who once worked with her would spread her personal life around. She knew they spoke about her. She heard them talk behind her back and mysteriously stop the minute she turned her face. She'd not mind at all. Frankly speaking, it made her feel special. It was her only reason to find time to chuckle to herself. And when the clock would tick 6:00, she'd quietly walk out to the bus stop. This was the most amusing part of her day. She was not to worry about things that have already happened in the day, she was to prepare herself for what lay ahead of her. She had defined her charms, an empty seat in the bus would mean that he would not beat her up today, a smile on the way back home would mean that he would not hit her face, sight of a dead dog generally meant that he probably would not be home or would have slept by the time she reaches.. someone wearing white on the way means he'll definitely like the food today.. It was that easy. One of these signs and she would be amused by herself.
These charms were her work of extreme calculations worked upon trial and error and had about a 70% chance at accuracy. They, honestly, were her best achievement.
Everyday that she reached the bus stop, she'd consider boarding a different bus to an unknown place. She'd wonder how bad the life could be to survive without. Sometimes, she'd take the bus with the longer route to avoid reaching home. But just like how birds who have the liberty to soar wide and far, yet they get back to the same nest at sunset,so would she.
She'd come home and cook again. Most times waiting to be hit so get over the fear. She'd wait for him to come to her and drag her to the bedroom so then he could hit her all he wanted. He would always do that, you know. He'd always drag her to the bedroom, sometimes with a firm grip on her hair, as though it was some work of divine passionate love-making. Sometimes, he'd hit her till she would fall asleep on the floor, she'd wake up the next day, like nothing happened.
Today, it was a tad too different. She had managed to burn the meal last night and he hated the oily smoke. She had been hit with a tablespoon and had straight marks all over her back. She was so tired that she could barely walk. She somehow had managed to work her way to the end of the day, but she could not stand her timid fright anymore. She had decided she'd talk to him and end her misery and if necessary, walk out (even she knew that was not to happen). She had decided that she'd tell him not to hit her. Tell him that she understands that he gets angry and doesn't know what to say, yet hitting wasn't necessary. She wasn't sure of how would he react. She almost enacted that in her head multiple times, each time with stronger words and she imagined it ending with his arms around her waist and she could cry her heart out to him. She did not want what had happened till now and she did not feel it needs to continue. Neither did he. She had seen it in him. She did realize though that in all the time that they have been married, they had hardly spoken. She had heard his voice when he spoke to others, but there hasn't been a conversation between the couple. Strange, one might think.
However, when taking the flight of stairs, fear gripped her again. Fear of the uncertain, the silence, the what-not. She knew that this wasn't normal. She had been afraid every day. But today was a tad too different. Almost unwillingly, she keyed the door, but it was unlocked. She opened the door and she saw a pool of blood with him in the middle of it, on the floor. It was then when she realized that she was too wounded to scream for help. She ran, with whatever strength she had to him and tried to pull him to life. Even with the floor too slippery with the blood, she couldn't move him an inch. She started crying out loudly. But what do you know, the neighbors must have thought that he is hitting her again.
She was there, helpless. He was there, too. He wasn't dead. There had been, most definitely, an accident. She knew not what happened. She knew not what to do. She knew not how to panic. She was, one may say, subjected to pain everyday; and as it is said, one does not get allergic to something to which one is exposed to on a regular basis.
Most loves are like that. It's like an over-crowded lifeboat. You need to throw stuff one-a-time to keep it afloat. So you throw your pride, self-respect and your independence, in that order. It is sinking still. After a while you start with people: friends, family, people you once knew and cared for. Yet, it's never enough. Nothing ever is. The lifeboat is still sinking. And then finally, you drown with it.
The end.
It was long pending. I needed to make a few corrections, I know. But this is the way it is.
Take care.
See ya around.
