usual, drinking and discussing paltry pay cheques and cursing the government for being soft on Pakistan. All the army kids were too old for her, and they were all trying out vodka and rum and anything else they could get. The older kids were snogging behind the bushes.
She felt bored. Her tummy felt strange after the gallons of aerated drinks she had gulped down out of boredom. A little later she couldn’t hold it in any more. At the far end of the farmhouse, there were washrooms for guests and she walked towards them. There were drunken generals, colonels and other rank holders all over the farmhouse grounds. She felt awkward and strange. Just a few yards away from the washroom, she felt a rough, overpowering hand on her mouth and another hand across her waist. She saw two men with demonic expressions on their faces.
She only remembered partly what happened next. Over the years, she had tried to slowly erase that memory from her head and had succeeded to an extent. Her rape on that fateful night now seemed like a figment of her imagination. Something that had happened in a parallel universe. Though to this day, she still woke up in the middle of the night with a cold sweat, the faces of those old men—as old as her father—staring down at her, between her legs, scratching her bare body, grunting and moaning as they inflicted pain on her. They took turns for about half an hour. She still remembered the pain, she still remembered the curse words, and she still remembered the egging from one old man to the other, urging each other to violate her harder. She still remembered lying in her own sweat, urine and blood, crying and waiting for help. Her screams were hollow and soundless. No one came. She remembered how she had put herself together, looked at herself in the mirror andfelt dead inside. She wondered if she had done something to deserve it. More than that, she clearly remembered how they had threatened to kill her family if she ever told anyone about what had happened. She had lived in fear ever since. For more than a year, she stayed quiet. But one day, she tried.
The first time she tried telling her father about it, she was slapped across her face. And she just told him that a friend of his had tried to manhandle her. He refused to believe her and told her she was imagining things. Her own father denying her the right to get back at the people who destroyed her.
‘He is a respectable man and a senior of mine,’ he said. ‘Dare you talk like this again!’ He walked off.
For months, Zarah was in severe depression. Her mother thought it was puberty which was causing it and brushed it off. She would shower five times a day, eat soap to cleanse herself from the inside and was referred to many doctors for OCD (Obsessive–Compulsive Disorder). Slowly, she cured herself. She shut her mind off to all her memories and created new ones.
Sometimes, she felt vindictive. She tracked the two army men years after the incident. One of them died a year after the incident, three bullets to the chest in an attack on the army base camp in Srinagar. Since he was a veteran Kargil hero, his funeral was covered on television. She laughed demonically, faintly similar to how those men had that night at the farmhouse. Her father watched silently.
The other man slipped into a coma after slipping on his bathroom floor five years after the incident and suffered a concussion. He got better with time but would be confined to a bed for life. Seeing him lie helpless on the hospital bed made her feel better. Telling her rapist’s nineteen-year-old daughter what he had done to her made her feel ecstatic. When the man’s daughter asked Zarah how she knew the whereaboutsof her father, Zarah replied,
‘I have never forgotten him. He is a monster.’
The horror in the daughter’s eyes quenched her vengeance. She laughed when she saw the man’s daughter confront him with her newly acquired news.
She was over it now. Her rape did take away
She felt bored. Her tummy felt strange after the gallons of aerated drinks she had gulped down out of boredom. A little later she couldn’t hold it in any more. At the far end of the farmhouse, there were washrooms for guests and she walked towards them. There were drunken generals, colonels and other rank holders all over the farmhouse grounds. She felt awkward and strange. Just a few yards away from the washroom, she felt a rough, overpowering hand on her mouth and another hand across her waist. She saw two men with demonic expressions on their faces.
She only remembered partly what happened next. Over the years, she had tried to slowly erase that memory from her head and had succeeded to an extent. Her rape on that fateful night now seemed like a figment of her imagination. Something that had happened in a parallel universe. Though to this day, she still woke up in the middle of the night with a cold sweat, the faces of those old men—as old as her father—staring down at her, between her legs, scratching her bare body, grunting and moaning as they inflicted pain on her. They took turns for about half an hour. She still remembered the pain, she still remembered the curse words, and she still remembered the egging from one old man to the other, urging each other to violate her harder. She still remembered lying in her own sweat, urine and blood, crying and waiting for help. Her screams were hollow and soundless. No one came. She remembered how she had put herself together, looked at herself in the mirror andfelt dead inside. She wondered if she had done something to deserve it. More than that, she clearly remembered how they had threatened to kill her family if she ever told anyone about what had happened. She had lived in fear ever since. For more than a year, she stayed quiet. But one day, she tried.
The first time she tried telling her father about it, she was slapped across her face. And she just told him that a friend of his had tried to manhandle her. He refused to believe her and told her she was imagining things. Her own father denying her the right to get back at the people who destroyed her.
‘He is a respectable man and a senior of mine,’ he said. ‘Dare you talk like this again!’ He walked off.
For months, Zarah was in severe depression. Her mother thought it was puberty which was causing it and brushed it off. She would shower five times a day, eat soap to cleanse herself from the inside and was referred to many doctors for OCD (Obsessive–Compulsive Disorder). Slowly, she cured herself. She shut her mind off to all her memories and created new ones.
Sometimes, she felt vindictive. She tracked the two army men years after the incident. One of them died a year after the incident, three bullets to the chest in an attack on the army base camp in Srinagar. Since he was a veteran Kargil hero, his funeral was covered on television. She laughed demonically, faintly similar to how those men had that night at the farmhouse. Her father watched silently.
The other man slipped into a coma after slipping on his bathroom floor five years after the incident and suffered a concussion. He got better with time but would be confined to a bed for life. Seeing him lie helpless on the hospital bed made her feel better. Telling her rapist’s nineteen-year-old daughter what he had done to her made her feel ecstatic. When the man’s daughter asked Zarah how she knew the whereaboutsof her father, Zarah replied,
‘I have never forgotten him. He is a monster.’
The horror in the daughter’s eyes quenched her vengeance. She laughed when she saw the man’s daughter confront him with her newly acquired news.
She was over it now. Her rape did take away
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