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| Photo Credits : Orijit Sen (#OrijitSen) |
What was she thinking
when those men snatched her off the field,
she was looking for her ponies at dusk, just like every other day!
What was she thinking just before they roughed her up,
muffled her muting her cries, taking her away to the dark, dingy room!
Did she think it was a prank,
that someone was only playing a rough game of hide and seek?
What was she thinking when those men
touched her and hurt her in all terrible ways,
in places that Amma always said are to be secret and covered?
‘Why were these men not covering her up?’
‘What would Amma say?’ ‘Where was she?’
‘Would she be angry if she found her like this?’
‘But where was Amma ?’
What was she thinking when those men used
violent force and pushed their heavy, angry bodies on top of her,
thrashing her, hurting her?
What was she thinking
when their faces kept changing,
When it seemed like two became four, became more.
Was she confused, searching for a familiar face that would change this violent, hurtful game?
What was she thinking when the new faces
did nothing to soothe her,
they brought her nothing new,
only new ways to inflict more pain that made her cry and scream?
when every time the doorway filled up
with the silhouette of a huge frame?
‘Was it Abba?’ ‘Did he finally find me’ ‘oh God, let this be him!’
What did she focus on when her stomach ached more
because of the wounds,
than the gnawing ache of hunger and thirst?
When every time the doorway lit up
did she think maybe—just maybe—
someone will walk in with food and water,
or something a little kinder
than their big sticks and bodies to hurl at her!
What did she think when she knew this was not a game at all?
What was she thinking
When no Amma or Abba showed up after what felt like endless days,
‘Are they thinking of me?
Are they even looking for me?
Are they missing me?
Hope my ponies got home! Are they thinking of me too, somehow!’
What was she thinking when the only wait was to drift into exhausted sleep,
sleep in which the confused, worrying, weary mind would not run away
to places in a distant life,
when she lived with her own happy people.
Because only in sleep would she not fear the footsteps
that inevitably brought the next assault, next lashing,
next bout of pain and hurt.
A kind of sleep when the mind is numbed in stupor!
What was she thinking when the temple bells rang
not too far from the darkness she was chained in,
Was she old enough to estimate the exact place where she was being kept,
bound and helpless?
Did she feel hopeful every time the bells chimed,
that this time someone—just a little kinder—would find her,
bring her food and water
and surely, just for once not touch her body hurtingly, violently!
What was she thinking when the hours of pain and dullness
got longer than the moments of lying awake;
When the lull of not knowing became the only sweet comfort for her!
What was she thinking when she knew the game was finally getting over,
When her breath came in spurts and gasps
in the most scary game she’d ever played,
A game where she will never find Amma, Abba or the ponies in the meadow again!
{In the midst of everything Asifa, a nagging, singular thought for me has been ‘What was she thinking through it all!' What can a little 8-year old think inside a horror that no one is able to make any sense of?!
Wrote this In a moment of overwhelming restlessness to quell this unshakable gloom}
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