K felt her day was wonderfully spent. Her work was in order, her 'attraction' war with the Oyster Seeker was upbeat and she had met Talkathon without Drama King for a subway dinner, a long walk and line of her fav. smoke. They spoke of sex, boys work and freedom form the shackles of commitment. Talkathon dropped her to the station and as K walked along the length of a newly constructed bridge for pedestrians, dodging slow and swift walkers who pretended to bump into her, listening to blaring music, ignoring eyes that stared at her chest or a comment that was passed on her butt. K was too happy to let anything spoil a good day.
Then it had to happen -
A haze of shudder crowded her mind. Somebody had whipped her mind into a frenzy, had lashed her skin and blood streamed out of her. Acid hands had moved around her waist, arms, back , arse and culminated to brush against her breasts. Her skin was burnt cold, stretched tight, her stomach churned and her jaw hurt so bad that she wanted to smash herself against a steel rail to ease the pain. In her reflex, she rammed a her Ayan Rand in the face of a man behind her. K did not know how tall, short, feeble or strong he was - she was very hurt to realize any of that. It was senseless act of courage - she was alone on the bridge and she did not care if things got out of hand. K's sense of space, the stretch of lemon yellow bridge, her mode of escape, her ability to run in her shoes - none seemed to count.
K turned around to face him, whack him but he was gone - there was no one. She felt an elbow smashed into the side of her left breast, her fist clenched and she shirked, the last thing that she saw of her hand - was her diamond sparkling in the stale light of a dutifully gleaming tube-light. Then there was blood on it - the fine edges had torn his skin below his chin. He looked at her in pain and she cursed - he cursed her back, trying to grab the steel bar on the side - he yelled "Miane kuch nahi kiya, aap pagal ho..." (I did not do it, you have lost it).
K turned, not believing him, quietly she just walked on - a part of her mind was going numb, she refused to allow herself to think or feel think. She walked straight into the compartment, into the rick, then into her room, ignoring her father's presence. He had waited to have dinner together, he was cooking the whole day and wanted her to be a part of it. K lay on her bed, abandoning herself in strange awkwardness of a street child. He walked into her room, " Hey, I thought you were changing-up or so... let's have dinner, I am waiting. I made your special dal. I wanted you to make my favorite rice - I have cooked it - just give it the tadka I like. You okay beta? You look tired, lost and... what is wrong? Lets talk... " K never liked those words - 'Lets talk' - what was she doing to tell him? Some pervert felt-up your daughter in the most ugly way? That she hates her body and that she does not know why men behave the way they do? He tried to hold her arm but she sat-up with a jerk - "Nah, dad, just closing. work. I am exhausted. Did you enjoy yourself? Give me a minute, I'll have a bath later - lets eat!" K promptly changed into pajamas and tee, instead of her regular singlet and shorts. No part of her skin had to be seen. "What if he notices? Do I have a marks?" She knew it was late... her clock struck 10:30pm and he was late for dinner.
In the quietness of her mother's kitchen - she cooked, cleaned the mess he had happily created and heard him narrate his day. K wished him goodnight and he was reluctant to ask why, and hit the shower. She scrubbed her body, it started to burn and she ignored the redness that was surfacing. K was lying around the bed looking at the white overalls of her walls, her bed linen, blocking all sensation from her mind, she turned around to hold her teddy. Talkathon's call ringing in her face - K cut the call and messaged her good night. She could not afford to put their night to waste.
She tucked herself in bed, but the anger did not seem to go, she could not concentrate on the book, she refused to flirt over the phone. Refused to let another man into her mind. Not that night. He was being kind in the message - wanting to know if she wanted to talk. She did not. He was a man and he would not understand. He would feel bad but the magnitude of hurt, anger, filth and guilt she felt for being born - for being called gori chamdi, for being treated like a cheap piece of meat - he would never feel that. There was nothing she could tell, words would not sooth her - he would not know what to say. Mushy had once apologized on behalf of all the dirty men in the world and it had not helped. Sometimes he was sorry that he was a man, just as K was now - she was sorry for herself, for being born a woman, her her body and her mind and the feeling she felt.
She turned to put her mind to sleep and then she realized the pain in her chest. The elbow.
The chill had started to make her feel awfully cold, she needed to hug someone really bad - someone very strong, very warm and very pure. She missed Childmom. K knew she would need to strengthen her shield. She swore she would not cry. She had to wipe this muck from her mind tonight. It would be unfair to carry yesterday into tomorrow.
