Scribblings
Of Aaina’s deepest scars
Trigger Warning: This story contains references to suicide, self-harm, sexual harassment, death, and trauma.
They found Aaina lying in a pool of blood, cold as ice, wrists slashed with a blunt knife, lying on the floor beside her body. The scars on her thighs were fresh. That’s all her mother, Anu, saw before her head started reeling. She dropped with a thump on the floor.
The autopsy suggested it was an indisputable case of suicide. It wasn’t the blood loss that killed her; she overdosed on sleeping pills. The self-harm was done after taking the pills to seal the deal. Aaina was only seventeen. Her family couldn’t comprehend what might have pushed her to such an extreme. She didn’t even leave behind a note.
Anu cried for the first few weeks. But there are only so many tears the eyes can shed. The tears dried up soon enough, and after that, Anu stared blankly out the window. One day, she went to Aaina’s room. She organised the cupboard full of damp clothes, straightened up the disarrayed bed, and started cleaning the messy desk.
Hidden away in a drawer, she found Aaina’s black diary. She never dared to touch it before; her daughter would throw a tantrum if anyone so much as put a finger on it. Anu thought she might as well open and read it, not that anyone would mind now.
The diary was full of scribblings — little doodles, half-complete writings, torn-out pages, poems, and many indecipherable notes struck out repeatedly with a pen. Anu glanced over at a few of them.
Entry #16
I was nine. We were on a trip. I was in the hotel playing hide and seek in the corridor with two friends. A housekeeping staff was cleaning an empty room. He was very nice and friendly to the three of us. I thought he was our friend, too.
When it was my turn to hide, I hid in the same room. The moment I entered alone, he grabbed me from behind, threw me on the bed, and pinned me down. My voice was stuck in my throat. I was struggling silently. Before he could proceed, my friends approached the door, searching for me. As he heard their footsteps, the man sprang to his feet. I immediately ran like my life depended on it.
I was traumatised for days. But I didn’t tell anyone, not even my mother. I didn’t fully understand what had happened. So I remained silent.
The next time around, I was thirteen. Mom had appointed a personal yoga trainer for both of us. He also did massages and facials. The trainer was too sweet to be true; only I didn’t know the difference between truth and facade yet. After a month, he said I had blackheads, and he could give me a free facial. I agreed enthusiastically since I had never done it before. Mom agreed as well.
Somehow, the facial turned into a body scrub. He went from my face to my neck, then to my chest and further down. I lay perfectly still, pretending nothing was happening. I just hoped the nightmare would end soon. Later, I heard he had done the same to my cousin, and she had spoken out. That’s when he stopped coming to our house.
But I didn’t speak out; she did. All I did was sit by the window and stare blankly at the sky, holding back my tears. When mom asked if he had touched me like that, I denied it. I didn’t want to face it. So I remained silent.
“Why?” I ask myself. But I don’t have an answer. Maybe I was frozen with trauma. I wanted to believe it was all a lie. I was too scared to smile for months. I constantly asked, “Why me?” I am not one to talk about my feelings — is that why I didn’t protest? Maybe I was too young to know what it all meant. Or maybe I was too old to expect that no one would blame me. I don’t know what it was.
All I know is that I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed of my silence. I feel ashamed that I wasn’t strong enough. Who knows how many more girls those men touched because I remained silent.
Entry #40
If We Didn’t Feel
How easy it would be if we didn’t feel
They could be vile and mean
They could put me in a guillotine
But I would smile like it’s no big deal
How easy it would be if we didn’t feel
People could break my heart
The world could tear me apart
But I wouldn’t even need to heal
How easy it would be if we didn’t care
People could die
Innocents could be strung up high
But no one would shed a tear
How easy it would be if we didn’t care
I could drown in the hate
I could be crushed under the weight
But I would still live and breathe air
Anu couldn’t bear to read anymore. The tears came pouring; her vision was blurry. She left the room in a rush, gasping for air. As she flung herself onto the bed, she couldn’t even let out a whimper because of the growing knot in her throat.
In a parallel universe
Anu rushed into the room when she heard an ear-splitting wail. She found her daughter crippled on the floor, shaking convulsively. She was covered in sweat.
Anu opened the windows, pulled Aaina onto her lap, rubbed her back, and poured out a glass of water. Aaina emptied the glass like she had been parched for months. Anu kept catechising Aaina, but in vain. No matter what she asked, Aaina would only say, “I didn’t do it, Mom. I stopped it.”
After comforting her for a while, Anu put her to bed. She slept that night, and for many nights and days thereafter. It was like she hadn’t slept in ages. But Anu had no peace. She needed an answer.
When Aaina wasn’t home one day, Anu decided to learn what was troubling her daughter. She snooped around Aaina’s belongings for a clue, until she came across a black diary in one of her drawers.
Normally, Aaina would throw a fit if Anu went near that diary. But the situation was dire; Anu couldn’t bear being kept in the dark any longer. She started fishing for clues. She went through a few of the decipherable pieces among tonnes of scribblings.
Entry #26
Today, Angshu tried to kiss me. I shrank away. My body started shivering. The flashbacks have started up again. I don’t like being touched, especially by boys. I like him so much, but I can’t bear it when he gets too close. I feel suffocated, as if my lungs are going to burst. My heart races just like that day when I ran for my life. If I can’t run away, I freeze.
It’s strange how I feel both guilty and traumatised. I was the victim, but I still feel like I did something wrong. I didn’t fight back hard enough. I didn’t let the world know from the rooftops as I should have.
But would that have made any difference? Or would I just be seen with eyes of scrutiny? I would bet it’s the latter. So was it self-preservation to remain silent? I don’t know.
All I know is a kid shouldn’t have to bear the burden of changing the world. I shouldn’t have been responsible for protesting and seeking justice when it was my age to play with toys and build sandcastles. Maybe I was silent out of shock — the world couldn’t keep me safe.
Entry #44
A Part of Me
There is an ugly part of me
A part I wish wasn’t there
A part that formed when I was scared
When I felt like no one cared
When I was broken but not repaired
This part of me I talk about
Was slowly carved into my bones with time
Written in my blood when I cut myself on a climb
Making its home in me every time I said I was fine
Time didn’t change much
The climb never ended
I was only feeling worse
As the wait was suspended
I cried out loud
Admitted I wasn’t proud
I gasped for air and dropped dead
Didn’t realise it was all in my head
I didn’t know no one else could see
No one, none but me
They didn’t want to deal with my issues
So I wiped my tears and threw away the tissues
That’s when that part of me formed
Beauty was replaced by a hideous darkness
Softness turned into impeccable hardness
I tried everything, but it wouldn’t go away
I understood it was here to stay
There is an ugly part of me
A part I wish wasn’t there
But it is here now
So what can I do?
I guess I’ll have to live with my demons
Live like every part of me is true
Anu’s eyes welled up; it wasn’t sadness. Her daughter had darker demons than she could ever imagine, and she found a way to live despite it all. She was proud of Aaina's indomitable spirit. It’s like what she said — “I stopped it.”
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