“I tried to run but he grabbed me by the shoulders and pinned me against the wall. “Do as I say,” he whispered into my ear, “And I’ll let you go.” I tried to break free from his grasp but his huge hands were too strong. With one hand, he placed my hands behind my back and with the other; he held my head against the wall. “Please, let me go!” I pleaded to which he laughed. He removed the dupatta from my neck and I wept uncontrollably as tears continued to fall down my cheeks. I dug my long fingernails into his hand but he only sighed and aggressively pulled down my kameez. I couldn’t do anything about it, he was about to take it away.
He punched me hard in the stomach and I squealed in pain. “Now, I’m really getting tired of your shit. Do as I say,” he growled. I nodded silently and said to myself, “He’ll let me go if I do, he’ll let me go…”
10 years later “Zahrah? Are you even listening to what I said just now? Take this to the dining room right now!” my mother said to me as she hastily handed me the tray laden with fruits, jalebis and samosas. I nervously carried the tray to the dining room and put it on the dining table. I glanced at him. He sat there on the sofa adjacent to my father; he had slight stubble, his hair was slicked back and parted from the side and he wore a spotless white shirt with black jeans. Ironic isn’t it? He wore a white shirt and it was spotless, such a contrast to what he had done. Clearly, the way I saw it, why would he be stained? It was I who was because it wasn’t consensual for me. I was raped by him.
I felt stained. I felt dirty; those invisible stains loomed over me since the day it happened. I woke up every day trying to erase the memory but it always proved futile and I would end up with puffy eyes and a runny nose. Every day, I struggled to somehow not let this define me but I always ended up feeling miserable. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone. I had carried this weight on my shoulders till then but I was done. Everyone needed to know. My virginity was taken from me forcefully, I didn’t ask for it. I never did. He forced himself on me. And now, he was sitting in my house talking to my father under the perfect Prince Charming façade he puts on for everyone, hiding behind, there was a cruel rapist who had committed a sin. His parents, my mamoo and mami had come to ask my parents for my hand for their son.
I vomited in the washroom when my mother first told me about this. I smiled weakly at her when she went on saying how Sarmad was absolutely perfect for me with his job as an architect, designing buildings for corporate companies. “He’s an absolute delight,” she went on, “he’ll take such good care of my darling.” As I rested my head against the cold washroom tile, the horrifying event played vividly in my mind. He raped me in my maternal grandparents’ house when everybody was out shopping for my sister’s wedding. I didn’t go because I always felt claustrophobic in public spaces full of people so my mother decided to leave me in Sarmad’s good hands. I was only 15 back then. He was 23. I avoided talking to him after that, I didn’t want to see his face or feel his presence in the same room as I was.
He always pretended to be nice to me, cracking jokes and complimenting me and I feel disgusted and wanted to strangle him with my own hands. DOES’NT HE KNOW WHAT HE DID TO ME? HOW CAN HE PRETEND IT NEVER HAPPENED?
He entered my body without my permission. He took away my virginity. He stained me. He hurt me. And now he has the audacity to arrive in my house with a proposal of marriage?
“Zahrah, how are you?’’ Sarmad spoke to me directly. “I’m fine.” I replied curtly. I sat opposite to him between my mother and father and kept my eyes down; staring at the floor hoping the words would come out as bravely as I played it in my mind. I would tell them. It’s been too long. My life was already damaged since that day and I didn’t want to be betrothed to my rapist. It had to end. “I’m bursting with happiness at the thought of our two families uniting, Sarmad isn’t going to be just my son-in-law!” my father exclaimed proudly, “he’s going to be our son.” I stared at my father in disbelief. But I couldn’t blame him. He was clueless because I never told him about it. I looked at Sarmad and a mischievous smile played on his lips. “I couldn’t have been happier!” my mamoo told my parents as he clapped his hands together with joy. “What about you, Zahrah?” my mami asked me, “How do you feel about this? How was I supposed to feel? I felt angry and disgusted.
I stood up and strode over to the middle of the dining room, distancing myself from my parents, my mamoo and mami and him. My parents looked over at me with daggers in their eyes, watching what I would do. My mamoo and mami threw puzzled looks at each other while Sarmad inched forward and folded his hands on his chest, watching me with curiosity in his eyes. “Look, I cannot marry Sarmad.” I declared loudly. “What are you…
