If you are squeamish about ‘strong’ language, exit right now. Else, don’t leave a comment on how vulgar my words are – understand that they are vulgar because I FEEL VULGAR. I FEEL…..RAPED.
All you ladies (and men, why not?) out there, think about this:
“You are taken by surprise in a dark, stiflingly still basement. A ‘man’ (?) comes up behind you, grabs you, and begins to tear off your clothes. You try and scream, fight. He’s come prepared – he wraps a dog chain around your neck and pulls it tight, real tight until your eyes begin to bulge out of their sockets. And tighter still until your voice can no longer escape your throat. Neither can air enter your lungs anymore.
While your lungs burn for air, he rips off what is left of your clothing. Here it gets tricky and we ‘men’ (?), as always, will need to be excused from part of the proceedings, except as perpetrators, or voyeurs. The ‘man’ (?) behind you discovers that you are menstruating and effectively ‘dirty’. Small change in his plans, minor shift in targeted entry point.
He then forces his now-rigid ‘male’ organ into your other hole – the one that your ‘God’ (?) never intended for two-way access. A new dimension is added to the pain, to the fire that is already searing your abused body. As your anus is stretched under the violent assault, its delicate membrane ruptures and blood starts to flow. The irony escapes the ‘man’ (?) behind you – at this point in the proceedings, both, your vagina and your anus are bleeding copiously.
By this time, your lungs have all but collapsed in agony, the blood vessels in your eyes have hemorrhaged, coagulated blood fills your unseeing eyes. Unseeing, because your brain has been deprived of oxygen so long that it has rebelled and excommunicated your eyes. However, in the mysterious manner of the wondrous laws of your ‘God’ (?), the nerves in your body which are responsible for transmitting pain still do their job. Very efficiently. They dutifully, indeed beautifully transmit the fire from each thrust into your rectum, each rupture of your anus, each scream from each cell of your burning lungs. May be some ‘raaz pichle janam ka’?
Meanwhile, the ‘man’ (?) behind you continues his assault, indeed increasing the power behind his brutal thrusts as he nears his long fantasized release. The end is so frenzied that it is impossible to understand which one is the animal on either end of the dog chain – are you the bitch, or is he the dog? In one final, violent thrust, he unloads his seed into your intestines. The colour Pink makes its ironic entry now – long known as the symbol of womanhood, Pink asserts it’s self when your ‘blood-red blood’ mixes with his white semen. His grip on the dog chain around your throat slackens. He hurriedly pulls up his pants, spits on your limp body, and runs out of the basement. But not before showing you what your real worth to society is – he takes your gold chain, watch, and money with him.
And you are alone again. But this time, you don’t know it. All you know is the pain, shooting up from every corner of your battered body, even from places you didn’t even know existed.”
This happened on 27th November 1973. 36 years ago. Read that again – THIRTY SIX YEARS – and counting. She’s still alive. Less as a human being, more as a vegetable.
Three more numbers, if you please:
1,89,21,600 (One Crore, Eighty Nine Lakhs, Twenty One Thousand, Six Hundred).
Assuming that he was not an average Indian ‘male’ (?) and he did not ejaculate prematurely, the first number (a) is the assumed number of minutes that the Honourable Mr Sohanlal Bhartha Walmiki spent on his pleasure that night – 5.
The second number (b) is the number of years that the Honourable Mr Sohanlal Bhartha Walmiki spent in jail – 7.
The third number (c) is the number of minutes (only until the 27-11-2009 ‘anniversary’) that Aruna Shanbaug has spent in a hospital bed – 1,89,21,600.
The Honourable Mr Sohanlal Bhartha Walmiki has since moved on in life – his whereabouts are a closely guarded secret, both by his family as well as by the establishment – everyone has human rights, you know. Rumour has it that he works in a Delhi hospital (will ironies never cease?) as a ward boy and under an alias.
Aruna has entered her 37th year at Bombay’s KEM hospital. She alternately laughs, screams, cries, gets violent…..is thus tied down to her bed most of the time. She cannot eat and is force fed a paste of her food, which by the way she cannot taste. Her eyes can see but her brain cannot register what is being seen – cortically blind is the medical term, I believe. Her skin has become like a parchment stretched onto a skeleton. It is said that she goes into uncontrollable bouts of screaming whenever she hears a ‘male’ (?) voice, even through a radio.
Look at Aruna’s picture. This was before the rape. Luckily for us, I could not find a picture of her in her present condition.
Luckily for the Honourable Mr Sohanlal Bhartha Walmiki, the bastard’s picture is not to be found anywhere – he is living in our midst and we don’t know who he is.
What troubles me – I am a ‘man’ (?). I could do this to a woman, to another human being. Maybe I would?