The national debate on television, on rape, warms my heart. I feel happy that I have lived to see this day when it is dissected and discussed openly. For a rape victim, all those years ago, surviving meant a lifetime of humiliation and shame. These changes give me immense satisfaction.
My story, like each one of ours, is different. Mine was an arranged marriage and we were just discovering each other, on our honeymoon in Manali, when our fragile bonding was shattered. The day I was raped I was only a week-old bride with the henna still bright on my hands.
We were strolling, hand-in-hand, on the banks of a stream, into the setting sun and rising cold. We drew our mufflers around our necks and cuddled with each other. The muddy track emptied out to the oncoming darkness. We wanted to be alone and were happy that the street was clearing out. Soon it was just the two of us and our tremulous kisses. We did hear the sounds of some passers-by but did not bother. We did not realise that a few men had surrounded us. Suddenly, my husband was pulled away. The rest was too gory to describe. The police found me in the morning, bruised and abandoned with my husband tied to a tree. After receiving medical aid we were flown down to our hometown in the faraway South. We were devastated but what followed broke me down completely. Yet, I have survived to tell my story, because I think ending one’s life is an act of cowardice.
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Between medical examinations and recovery, I found my husband missing. He was not there to comfort me; the man who just two weeks ago had promised lifelong togetherness and who had cherished my unsullied body. My mother’s voice would ring in my mind: your body is a temple of God, think before you do anything with a man. Is he worthy of your body?
My husband refused to live with me any longer; with a person who had been used by other men. I was shocked and angry. It took me a complete year to heal physically, but mentally I remain scarred. I grew in strength slowly, helped by my family who began persuading me to return to my husband’s house. I was forced to put my family’s name and honour before me. My sister had to get married; my brother had to get a job and so on. My mother-in-law asked me to return and I did so and to a loveless marriage. My husband has never spoken to me about why he reacted the way he did. I live for practical reasons, with despise and duty in my heart.