To you who knows it all, I wish you didn't.
I would have tolerated every bit of that pain, if and only if you had not been witness to it. I would have subdued every single scream, and I say this with all the honesty – you already know, if and only if your ears had not been open to the shrieks that echoed inside me. I would have withheld every tear that warned to soak my face, if and only if you had not been crying.
Why were you there, why? When I was being mercilessly used, when my body had shivered under the touch of a hand so strange, a hand so harsh, when every bit of me had been crumpled under feet smeared with dirt, when he had–
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for writing all that to you. I'm stupid, just so stupid. I'm sorry for forcing you and myself to go through it all over again. I don't think I'll ever be able to get over the pain, I will tremble and my senses will turn numb every single time I will be reminded of it. It has settled somewhere inside me as a memory, a bleak memory that will pain just as much as it had pained to experience that. But I don't want you to remember any bit of it. Don't let the memory of it bring tears in your eyes, again. Please don't.
I'm not writing this letter to remind you about it again and again. No, this is the last time I'm talking about it infront of you, I promise. This whole letter may also not make sense, but there's nothing I have the strength to do right now other than talking to you.
Exactly a month ago, I had promised you that I would do anything and everything to fight for myself and for every single daughter of yours. I had promised you that I won't ever be a silent audience to the crumpling of any of your daughter's respect. I had promised that I wouldn't let me or anyone else in my line of sight burn in the flame of someone's malignant intentions. I had promised you that I would always speak up, I would always make a noise. Another promise I ended up breaking.
I wanted to fight, fight against every disgusting eye that had been cast upon me, I wanted to scream and confront and fight, fight for myself. But I couldn't. The hands with which I wanted to hit back, trembled so much that they couldn't move. The feet with which I wanted to kick hard, buckled so much that they couldn't take a daring step ahead, they just took stumbling steps backward until they could feel the wall standing firm behind. I had wanted to scream but I couldn't find my voice, I still cannot fathom where exactly had I lost it – perhaps in those tears which were continuously seeping down my cheeks, or in that distant, evil stare which I had seen slowly coming closer to me. In that moment, I had lost all my senses, I didn't seem to be alive. I had never imagined that a touch could actually leave someone dead, or even worse than that. It was important to make a noise, I had always known, but I never knew that it wasn't easy to make a noise. I wanted to make a noise, but I couldn't, I didn't.
Your daughter is not strong, not at all. She is weak, not that you don't know, you know it all. I am sorry, I failed you, yet again.
What had killed me more was that you were asking me to fight, yet I couldn't, and all I left for you to see was the sight of your daughter falling weak, just so weak. But now I know, I am not sure but perhaps you wanted to make me stronger, to mould me into a vessel which isn't fragile in any ways, to make me fall down so that when I get up and continue walking, I don't trip over the same stone again. I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying. I don't know if I really became any stronger. Will I really be able to make a noise if I am required to, in the future? Will I ever be able to gather all the strings of strength, turn them into a belt, and hit on the hard-core ego of anyone who will dare to assault me or anyone else infront of me?
Today, you're not leaning over behind me, you're not subtly peeping at the letter I'm writing. Yes, I know you do that every single time I write to you, and you do that even when I write a secret letter to my mother, your beloved; you've always been mischievous, but today you're not.
You are smiling at me, I can feel it, there is this smile embracing your lips, the smile which is known to be your lips' eternal partner, the smile you always wear, even when your eyes are completely wet with tears, exactly the way they are right now. I can feel your gaze fixed on me, you don't look away, I wonder why. I wonder why won't you avert your gaze and stare at something which is really worth your sight, something which won't leave your eyes brimming with moisture. I wonder why exactly would you persist staring at me and my scattered pieces, that too with that beautiful smile still playing on your lips. I'm not someone you should be smiling at. Who smiles at the sight of broken pieces of glass, which are capable of nothing but causing pain, causing frowns?
You still don't look away, and you continue to read every word that is filling these pages, and perhaps filling this strange void in me as well. You're reading every word, without even glancing at them, or maybe you're simply looking through me, quietly hearing what every beat of my heart has to say.
Just a few minutes ago, I had left the hold of my pen for a moment and averted my gaze, only to have my eyes fixed at the mirror. It happened without any warning, without my intention, as if a gust of wind forced me to look at the mirror. I don't know if it really was a mirror, because it felt more like your eyes, and I realised just how wrong I was. I am not broken, not weak, not scattered into pieces. I could feel the wind that rushed in from the ajar window murmuring something softly, but I don't know if it really was what I heard it to be. Was it you, whispering into my ears – I love you, all of you, and so you can't be broken – was it you?
Govind, will I ever be able to love you, with all of me?
