10 years after madness...sanity has long since sunk in
She’s been reading the papers daily now. It’s a routine: Areeba wakes up before the sun, listens for the creaking of the gate outside her door and the thump of the rolled-up newspaper, gets it in and opens it with absolutely no expression on her aging face. She begins reading: line after line, story after story. So similar to hers, and yet different in ways only she can understand.
‘10 years after madness’ reads the logo placed strategically in the midst of the story. 10 years since the 2002 post-Godhra carnage riots. Had it been only 10 years, Areeba wonders.
She goes back to reading that day’s article. It tells of a man who lost his entire family during the riots, like many others. She doesn’t know the person who has written the piece. She imagines it’s someone devoid of any emotions. Because only he could move people by his words. She tries to put her story into words, and they come out dry and dead. No one who’s lived through the riots can put into words exactly how he or she feels. But this story sounded as though it would move many readers to tears. Not her though. She’s past all that.
Areeba tries to remember what had happened that day, 10 years ago.
A happy bride: her face said it all. People all around kept fussing over her, with their ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s and ‘you’re the prettiest bride I’ve ever seen’. She knew they said that to every woman about to get married. But she wanted to believe them any way. She looked at her reflection in the mirror: she did feel beautiful. The sea green lehnga choli with its gold zari work somehow made her look even fairer than what she was. The dark kohl lining her light brown eyes made them come alive. But it was the excitement of getting married that added the twinkle in those eyes.
Finally, after all these years of waiting, she somehow couldn’t wait any longer. Her day was here. Her nikah, and her prince was just outside waiting to take his vows. She walked out of the dressing room towards the partitioned hall and took her place, face down and covered, as any demure Muslim bride should be.
Somewhere during the rituals, there were loud shouts of ‘kubul hai, kubul hai’ and before Areeba knew what had happened, they were married. Just like that.
Suddenly she was surrounded by hushed murmurings which gained momentum in a matter of minutes and after that everything seemed to happen in slow motion and in a rush at the same time.
Areeba remembered being taken inside in absolute panic, picking up her skirt and rushing past people, her jewellery strewn everywhere but not being allowed to collect them as every one tried to get inside their homes, trampling over anything or anyone that came in their way. She heard children wailing and people shouting. But in the distance she heard something even more disturbing. Screams of people in pain, cries of help, and men swearing.
It was just the beginning of the mayhem that was to follow, Areeba was told much later. Had she known better, she would have seen the signs. Seen that day as an omen of years to come. All that bloodshed, the violence, the pandemonium: symbolic of everything her life would become in a few months from her supposed blissful day.
Areeba hadn’t lost anyone during the riots. No one but herself. In just a couple of months, she learnt that she was carrying a child, and her joy knew no bounds. But she hadn’t expected the rage her husband felt when the news reached him.
That’s when everything began to go downhill.
Her husband's rejection towards her and their unborn child; the constant anger about nothing in particular but aimed, always, at her; the hitting — that was the worst. Not just before their son was born, but even after. And not just her, but their son too. It got worse with every passing month. She hid the bruises on her face and arms behind the burkha whenever she went out. At other times, her excuses for the black and blue marks got better day by day. She had fallen in the bathroom, hit her face while opening the door, or had had an accident. It was the kind of things she'd always seen in movies. But somehow she was living all of that.
After suffering in silence for almost 2 years, she had finally had enough. She knew that her decision for a divorce would have grave repercussions, in her family and the society, but she didn't see a way out. She didn't want her son to grow up amidst the violence and wrath.
And so she decided to leave her husband and go back home; to her parents and her brother's wife who lived with them while her husband was working in the gulf. It was difficult for them to accept that their daughter's marriage was broken and fear of what the rest of the family and community would say led to many arguments for the first few months Areeba was at home. But eventually the happiness and safety of her and her son meant more to them than the jibes and taunts they would face from people.
Even then, at her parents' home, Areeba found no solace for a long time. First her husband would visit them often in a drunken state, create a ruckus and demand to see his son. Her old father couldn't fight back against her angry husband and was often caught in the middle of his blows.
When that stopped, came papers demanding for custody of their son. Areeba would murder him if she had to, but there was no way she was giving up her son to that mad man.
After many trips to the court, endless ugly arguments and her son being a witness of all of this, she finally won. Not only did she get to keep her son, her husband was forbidden to ever set foot in her parent's house, or even see or speak to his son. People may say that was extremely cruel and selfish of her. But she had stopped caring what other people said for a long time now. Her family had been supportive enough thoughout the trial and they would always be there by her.
Back to the day's paper, the writing had become blurred and she heard the sound of her son stiring. She looked at the clock, 6.45. It was time to wake him up for school. She gave the article logo one last glance and got up from the chair.
10 years after madness, sanity, for her, had finally sunk in.
(This is a true story. The names, however, have been changed to protect the identity of the people in it)
Posted by Nishita Teresa Pereira
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