It began with him pulling my cheeks, calling me cute! Oh, I loved it! I was the adorable kid with chubby cheeks and bright smile – always cheerful and playful. I knew I was loved – because people love kids. So did he. I knew he loved me because I was the cutest kid in the neighbourhood.
One Sunday, as usual Mom and Dad got busy and I was left alone with the television and toys. He appeared with his bright smile and my favourite chocolate. “Bhaiya” I would call him because all the elder guys were our brothers, right? They were the elder ones who taught us the rules of the fun games, got us chocolates, protected us in the crowded places, gave us fun rides on their bicycles… All bhaiyas and didis did it.
But this bhaiya was different. I knew he loved me the most. I knew this because he started paying me a regular visit on Sundays. I told him about my dolls, my favourite cartoons and he would tell me stories. Stories of his days at school, his friends, yummy food he ate, movies he watched… He was good at telling stories and talking.
But it was a bit strange too. I could not tell how but it was…
Mostly I would sit on his lap, but he would say he is tired so he would lie down with me on top. It was strange. I knew it was. But I did not know what to do.
He was usually so sweet but it changed. When I cried, he gagged me with his hand. I knew it was strange. But I did not know what to do.
He pushed me, bashed me, suffocated me with a pillow over my face. It was strange and painful. But I did not know what to do.
He stopped telling stories and just did the things that made me cry. Every time he apologised while leaving. It was strange and scary. BUT I DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO.
I just prayed for either him or Sundays to disappear!
People say Sundays are fun! Mom and Dad said Sundays were holy. I somehow knew they were not. We went to church together early morning, finished our prayers, and returned home with a sense of accomplishment. Then mom and dad would leave and he would come to play with me.
Every Sunday, it began with pulling my cheeks but ended with pulling my frock up…and an apology while leaving.
Wounds heal with time, but the scars left are a vivid memory of all the pain.
Now, every Sunday, I still think of it – sometimes. Everything has changed now but I remember how I changed years ago: from an adorable kid to the “unfortunate kid”.
Akansha Tigga
Full-Time Faculty