Rape! Who is to be blamed?

Early in the morning, Facebook serves as my alarm clock. I scroll through my Facebook page to truly wake up my opened eyes.

Indeed this habit does bring in wakeful moments for my soul. I read about things happening in and around and the first thing I do is a quick click click click on the like buttons.

But there are moments like this morning when time halts and I start to ponder. Normally I don't think much beyond my kids and the books I'm reading. But, there are some moments when the dumbo in me stirs with a vengeance and I begin to think seriously.

This morning, I saw a post by a journalist about a rape victim in the Thai pavilion area. I had heard about the incident in BBS last night. I shook my head and empathized with the journalist for the call she was making.

I scrolled further down to read the many comments that had poured in. While some agreed with the post, there were many who condemned the rape victim instead of the accused. And a cold discomfort ran down my spine. People had started questioning the victim because she was supposedly a married girl ( I intentionally call her a girl cos she is only 19).
"Why was she not with her husband?" And so many other questions in that line have been raised. These questions irked me to the bone. A girl has been abused in such ugly manner and the question that arises is "why was a married woman out at that hour (10:30 pm)?

I remembered few politicians in our neighboring country who were found blaming the girls for such horrendous incidences. Another laughable report was about a police officer, who came out with a list of "what not to do" for the girls and women in the society to prevent such cases. And very little has been questioned about the men who are the bigger prey that needs attention.

Now, the same opinions are reflected by our very own Bhutanese folk too. It is such a shame.

Instead of questioning why the victim was with that man, at that hour, she should have been with her husband and other details, can't we question the brutal acts of those men? why can't people see what the girl has been through, the physical pain will be passed out as she was intoxicated by some but what of the humiliation? What of her emotional pain? Should her pains be superseded by the fact that she was a married woman out with another man?

Babies, barely one year old, have been raped. Angays, as old as seventy plus have been raped. Daughters have been raped by fathers and step fathers. Little girls have been raped by neighbors. Teenagers have been raped by their lovers. Unknown strangers rape the innocent village girls. Rape is a crime very much happening right under our noses. What are we waiting for? And why is it always the womenfolk who are under the radar whenever such incidences are reported? Why do we need to question what the girl was wearing?

Why can't we have laws that will provide a safe zone for our girls without putting curfew on the girls or questioning what they should wear. If the perpetrators receive dreadful punishment, I think that should take care of the issue itself. The predator should be the one in the clutches of the law, questioned and grilled not the innocent victims who are grilled and robbed, firstly by the heinous act of rape and later by the people questioning her integrity. Every time a rape victim is questioned of her integrity, I feel its like double rape.

But this is just a single opinion of a mother who fears for her growing up daughters.

Remembering my Ama

Two years! How do I count it? Do I use my fingers and toes to calculate it in terms of months and weeks? Or do I use calculator to calculate the exact number of hours since you left us in that pre-dawn darkness.

No, I don’t want to count the days that’s gone by. Nor do I want to remind myself of that unfaithful hour that robbed me off.

All the people I talk to, tell me, they understand my grief. But only my heart knows that no amount of understanding can actually wade deep into the gorge of my grief.

Some might say a prayer or perhaps offer butterlamp but no prayers will mend my broken soul nor any butter lamp dispel the darkness I’m in.

Many frightful dreams I shudder in, wallowing in whirlpool of remorse. If only I had kept my heart open. If only I had looked closely at your fragmented spirit rather than basking in your youthful radiant skin. If only I had seen through the fake wall of strength you had build around us.

Many ‘ifs’ remain. I can’t offer any ‘buts’ in return. Many questions remain. I don’t have any answers.

So I sit in solitude, scrolling down the contact numbers in my phone.Your number is still right on the top of the list. But I’ve stopped dialing your number now. I don’t like that computerized sound reminding me that you no longer exist in this world.
But what do this voice know? You have not ceased to exist. Never. You’ve evaporated into every cell of my soul. How can you not exist then?

I’ve those,” I miss you terribly ama” moments. I shed silent tears. But every time a drop trickles down, I remind myself of the strength with which you carried yourself around even when things were all wrong with you. Then I stop crying. I know you would never want me to be a weakling, for you never were one!

I fight a battle each new day. A battle with my spirit. And I think I am winning ama. Yes, indeed. I see myself stronger, way more confident and above all so sure of where I’m headed in life. And I know this is possible only because your soul has transgressed into my being.

Often times, I rebuke my weak heart and lo! I find your strong heart sitting next to it and that makes all the difference to my existence.

So you see ama, you are not gone. Then why am I counting the days and saying that today it will be two years since you left me? You’ve not left me, for you are very much alive in my soul.

The Choice

The cars are zooming by outside, I hear them. People are moving around, I hear them too. But more than these loud sounds,there is another sound far more louder than all these sounds put together. It is the sound of my heart thudding in my chest. NO! I've seen no ghost. Neither have I just come in from some heavy physical work. I'm just sitting in my room. Oh! yes! I can even hear the soft snores of my son sleeping beside me.

Why is my heart beating in this manner then?

Well, my heart knows that just as I'm sitting here, trying to gather the beats of my heart, my daughter must be in front of hundreds of her friends in the Assembly ground. She might be holding out a new silk Rachu and talking about it. Today it is her turn for the "Show and tell" during the morning Assembly time. In her school, unlike the other schools which have morning speeches, they have this 'show and tell' where the children bring an object to school and tell their friends about it.

I know had I not resigned, I would be another spectator, listening to her with tears streaming down my eyes. This has little to do with a mother's nervousness over her daughter's speech turn. I'm confident my daughter would give in her best!

What is making me feel that dripping feeling in my tummy is what she must be telling about that Rachu.

2012, a month before my ama left us, she called my daughter near her bedside. She was very weak and her hair had started falling out in clumps after the first round of chemo therapy. Her bony hands sliding into her black duffel bag, she fished out the silk Rachu. Handing it to my daughter, holding it firmly between their palms, which remained like that till she finished talking, my ama said," This is your Abhi's gift to you, Angie."

My Angie had just turned six a month ago but she always has been too mature for her age. She thanked her Abhi and came running to me. The first thing she had to ask me was,"Mama, is Abhi gonna die?"

I had tears in my eyes. I nodded first, trying to find words from the lump that had suddenly blocked my voicebox. Finally in a weak voice I told her," But I don't want her to."

Angie held me in her small arms which barely made a full round around my huge body and she told me,"Don't worry she won't die."

My ama expired a month later. Angie knew she had been wrong. But she didn't accept defeat. Calmly she told me, "Abhi is in heaven now mama, stop crying!" It was as if my little girl knew that she was gone to the better world than this earthly world of sorrows and griefs.

Yesterday, she came to me and said,"mama, can I have the gift my Abhi gave me." I just looked at her, stunned, why she was making this absurd request.

"I want to take it for my show and tell," she informed me. I stood dumb-founded. Just the other day I had given her the option to either take her IPod or the kindle which she uses every moment of her time at home. My daughter had once again proved her maturity with the choice she has made, leaving me spell-bound.

p.s I can almost hear her," this was a gift from my late abhi......."