My Escape From An Unimaginable Life Of Abuse
The darkest hours are just before dawn.
Mehmet Turgut Kirkgoz, Darshak Pandya | Pexels 1965 — India
I sit in my armchair, with my cup of ̶ ̶c̶o̶f̶f̶e̶e̶ ̶ peace.
As I lazily watch the little sparrow hop across our yard, pecking at the scattered grain as if in a hurry to get its share before the pigeons descended, I marvel at the miracle that is my life.
Filled with serenity, I see my two-year old daughter run towards me, laughing. I set my cup down and open my arms to her, careful to keep the hot liquid out of her way. As she settles down comfortably in my lap, I lay back and allow my mind to wander into the recent past.
Photo: Fox & Otter/Unsplash
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1958
I was just married and the new daughter-in-law in their household. I was only 13. I cooked, cleaned, washed, and helped with the family business, making and packing pickles. Each member of the family — there were six of them besides the constant stream of guests — rolled out orders as if it was their birthright and treated me like a servant.
They did not think twice about abusing me. I bore the physical and emotional abuse. I tried hard to please them. Had I not promised my father that I would do my best to make my in-laws happy? I kept my promise, little knowing the price I would pay.
I was afraid of the man who was my husband. He was nothing like I had imagined. I knew what marriage meant, but had no idea what was expected of me. I need not have worried about that, though. He treated me like dirt. The only concession he made was to allow me to cook and clean for him, launder his clothes, and wait on him. Oh, he also raped me when he felt like it.
Then one day, his mother suggested he take me out. I dressed in a pretty sari and accompanied him to the movie theater. He showed me where to sit and disappeared. Ten minutes later, just as I began to panic, he returned with another woman. Throughout the movie, they were absorbed in themselves. When it ended, the woman went her way. We returned home. I served him dinner. Then I cried myself to sleep in the corner of the room, yearning for my father’s kindness, my mother’s love, and the laughter that had abandoned me.
I was not allowed to write to my family or keep in touch with them. I couldn’t understand it. What had happened to the friendly people who had visited us before the wedding?
Life went on. And things got worse. I juggled avoiding being molested by my brother-in-law. Only my younger sister-in-law was kind. My father-in-law was tolerable, so long as I helped in his pickle business. He had no voice in the house anyway. My mother-in-law made sure I was always tired. When I was not deep in housework, she sent me off to fetch coal from the railway station for fuel, or to the market to buy vegetables for the week. It was a long walk and those bags were heavy.
Was this how life was going to be? What about my dreams of studying?
One day merged into the other.
The early 60s
I was now 17 and barely surviving. Being raped was now routine. But being kicked and having cigarette butts stubbed on my thighs hurt. A lot. I had no friends — I was not allowed to talk to the neighbors. Then one day, a visitor to the house mentioned that she never saw me going out with my husband. My husband laughed. Somehow I knew that did not bode well for me. He asked me to be ready that evening to go visit.
When we reached our destination, a woman invited us in. They chatted for a few minutes while I watched, quietly. Then, they got up and walked into the bedroom. He beckoned to me. Curious, I went in. They asked me to sit in the corner in a chair as they moved towards the bed. I then realized what was about to happen.
We returned home. He was triumphant. I felt humiliated. For the first time, I confronted him. In response, he beat me, raped me, and kicked me to the corner of the room.
The next morning I tried to tell my mother-in-law what had happened. Like her son, she just laughed. I got busy. I must have dozed with something on the tava (griddle) when I was startled awake to see my mother-in-law grinning and holding my hand down on the hot surface.
Another phase began in my life when I discovered I was pregnant. I was thrilled, yet afraid. What world would I bring my child into? What life would I give her? The days passed. The Gods were kind to me. My baby survived despite the abuse from her father. Just two months before she was born, he decided to go abroad to pursue higher studies.
My life changed when my daughter arrived. Finally, I was going to visit my mother for a few months. I recovered my health. Then, sadly, it was time to go back.
Motherhood unveils a woman’s true strength. I was protective of my baby. Nobody cared about her. I often considered running away with her.
And then one day it happened. In retrospect, a blessing in disguise: We got news that my husband was now married to another woman. My mother-in-law planned to get rid of us. She admitted me to a hospital for the mentally ill. I managed to escape with the doctor’s help.
I came back home to see my daughter sitting on the doorstep, looking hungry. I grabbed her, holding her close, my tears mingling with hers. Filled with fury I pounded on the front door. My mother-in-law opened the door and I gave her a piece of my mind. She shoved me out, slamming the door in my face.
Stunned, I slumped on the doorstep. A movement caught my eye. It was my father-in-law, beckoning to me. Gathering my daughter, I followed him. He apologized and advised me to go back home to my mother’s. He put us on a train with a small packet of biscuits.
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Today — 1965
Photo: Azraq Al Rezoan/Pexels
I watch my daughter, breathing peacefully as my heart swells with love. I feel the now-familiar tug of gratitude. I am no longer haunted by constant fear. I feel safer than I ever felt before.
At 20, I finally believe I have a future.
I am filled with a sense of hope, a promise of rebirth.
I rise again, healing.
I am born again.
Note: This is my mother’s story and perhaps one of the hardest I ever had to write. I am the daughter in the story.
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Sexual abuse of children and minors is incredibly common. According to the Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network (RAINN), 1 in 9 girls and 1 in 53 boys under the age of 18 have experienced sexual abuse from an adult. Girls are far more likely to be victims of sexual abuse; the organization reports that 82% of all victims under 18 are female, and those who do suffer from assault and abuse are more likely to also develop mental health issues like depression, PTSD, and drug abuse.
There are ways to help child abuse victims. Want to get involved to bring an end to child sexual abuse? There are a few things you can do. There are organizations like Prevent Child Abuse America that are good places to start and that are always looking for people to donate their time and money to their efforts. The organization also suggests writing to local elected officials to support policies that bring an end to sexual abuse, and of course, the simplest thing to do is to keep eyes and ears open and to report abuse when you see it — and to always take children seriously when they say they're being abused.
Vidya Sury is a writer, editor, and diabetes warrior. Besides her own 6 websites in various niches, she writes regularly on Medium and has been featured on Huffington Post, Business Insider, Abbott India blog, and others.