Rakul, a newlywed in my colony,
a moon-shaped face, cheeks like pink peonies.
Pink peonies and lotus,
two flowers I was always fond of.
I went to her wedding, and now it’s been 10 days
since I saw her gaze
at us through her balcony,
while we play in the street
laughing, fighting, running, shouting,
somedays pretending to be the birds—tweet, tweet, tweet.
I wonder why she never steps out.
What happened to Rakul?
She used to be on the balcony always on time,
sometimes smiling and sometimes squeezing a lime,
sometimes chopping the onions with tears in her eyes
while sometimes just standing and wiping her tears.
She must have gone back to her home
to reunite with her ma and papa
or maybe she is just ill,
wait, a disease so deadly that she can’t even walk to the balcony?
Five more days, and I finally see her gaze.
What expression she holds today
is hard to explain.
She stares with a blank face
not at all bothered about the tweets,
holding something in her hand—is it a box of sweets?
Here comes Rohan uncle’s wife, like a strong wave in the ocean
Shouting, "How dare you open the box of sweets?"
And dragged her on the floor, grabbing her silky hair.
Rakul tried her best, moved her hands and legs,
fought against the strong current
and the birds watched in shock; the neighbors assembled
however, not a single one jumped into the ocean.
Within seconds, Rakul disappeared, swept away by the strong current.
Windows were shut, and the balcony’s door got closed.
We could still hear the yelling
which soon faded and became unclear.
Soon, our families called us inside.
"It’s time for dinner, kids."
"But it is only 6 o'clock, maa,
did you see what happened with Rakul?
I have seen this at school in the domestic violence drama!
Shouldn’t we complain?
Call the police?
Give me the phone. I will dial the 3-digit number now, please!"
She snatched the phone from my hand
told me to mind my business and
when I raised questions about taking a stand against violence
I was immediately silenced.
I could not sleep the whole night
so I went on the balcony,
to escape the dreams of Rakul’s plight.
I went there to gather some fresh air
but felt breathless when I saw Rakul there
on her balcony. Her clothes were ripped,
her neck had bruises.
Her hair was tangled and short,
and soon I noticed,
she was holding long strands of hair with a weak grip in her fist.
She was sitting on the floor; her entire body weight was resting on the grille
as if she had no will
to speak, cry, shout, or dry.
Dry the blood dripping from her nose.
My house was just in front of hers.
And on that day, I wished too hard that I lived somewhere else,
not at all this close.
Close to Rakul’s house—the house of a newlywed in my colony.
This is the story of Rakul, a victim of domestic violence
and the little girl,
who watched in silence.
I still wonder if any one of them—the violence or the silence
was not tolerated,
life would have been different for both Rakul and the little girl
who loved pink lotus.
She started hating them the next day after the incident
when she saw a garland of lotus on Rakul’s neck
being placed to hide her bruises.
For the second time, the little girl saw Rakul’s body outside her house,
and she had no curiosity left in mind about why she never stepped out.
The first time was the day of her wedding,
and now she was being taken to the Shamshan Ghat for the last rites,
to finally burn her traces.
Love for the lotus was gone, and so was the pink peony.