She looked at her 2 year old daughter yet again; beautiful, big brown eyes, white as milk complexion, strands of curly, golden hair, and the pinkish-soft skin. She was the one who had held her mother for these 4 years of marriage (if that is what you call a man’s right to torture his lesser-known, hardly understood better half).
She’d been married for four years now. No, it wasn’t a forced marriage – they had met while she was on training in Mumbai. He’d been introduced to her as the Manager, Training Cell. There was something about his look, the way he talked to her, and smiled continuously. In the party that night, he’d asked her to dance with him, and as the words Nothing Gonna Change My Love for you engulfed every person in love that night, he whispered in her ears – “Marry Me,… I will love you the rest of my life” .
She put on her favorite jeans and top. She dressed her daughter in a pink frock, with silver frills. Boy she sure looked like a doll. Her innocent looks and the sounds of Mamma, mama, did nothing to alter her decision. She was always quick in deciding.
She was surprised and happy at the same time. Less than 12 hours of meeting someone landed her in answering the question that would determine her future life. After some weeks of speculation, a “Yes” was the only word she could think of, Why, she’d known by now that he comes from a reputed family of Delhi, earned well, and seemed pleasant. Not long after, they were married.
She reminisced over the lost times as her eyes caught her big diamond on her ring finger. She’d loved it. She laughed how many times he’d mentioned to her how much he spent for this ring. And not another gift followed for the next 4 years of their marriage. No. he occasionally took her shopping for the bare minimum necessities, though more to insult her choice of colors, designs and styles; bursting her into tears at almost all the stores. She soon took to shopping less than ever.
In order to be in Mumbai with him, she’d left her job, though more because he promised he would get her a job soon in Mumbai, and the idea of partners working in different cities didn’t really appeal to him. “Money isn’t everything, honey”, he’d say.
And,he never seemed to comply with what he said.
She couldn’t find a job; some were refused owing to the travel time involved (‘Who will cook the dinner, sweety?”), others because he thought the boss had an air of cheapness around him (“Did you notice how he stared at you?”) Some were not “respectable enough” (“Do you really think this job fits you being a Graduate?”) “Why the hell do you put on so much make-up? Cant you do without your damned kajal? You think you are a Model or what?” So on and so forth.
That’s why the jeans and the sleeveless top.
That’s why the light pink gloss on her lips and the blush on her cheeks.
Frustration in her was building up. It soon managed its way to crawl in their marriage. Frequent fights soon turned ugly. He’d never harmed her physically, but his words often wounded her much more. Everytime she asked him to take her out, he was busy. She asked him to pick his towel from the bathroom, or arranging his closet, he’d retort “Why?? You are free the whole day; can’t you even arrange my stuff? He’d be out with his friends often and many a times she knew he was lying when he said he was in office.
By an year, she was so tired of looking for a job, that she withdrew from the idea. He was pleased or so she thought. “I must make up for the lost love in us; I should give a sincere try”
That night, as he sat to a table of his choicest favorites, she mentioned to him she’d like to plan for a baby. Boy, he sure was excited. But not for long. His lackluster attitude, the careless behavior, rude words, insulting nature, and above all his all-of-a-sudden-I-am-the-best-husband only made the pregnancy worst for her. He wanted her to switch on and switch off as he pleased. She could never be familiar with his mood swings, one moment he’s the perfect husband, other he’d shout at her, insult her, call names to her family, speak in the most undignified languages of all times. She’d had enough, she thought to herself. She packed her bags, picked her few months old daughter, and declared, “I am left with no choice but to leave you”. He locked her. Made frantic calls to the families, embarrassed her, almost begged her not to leave, successfully. He was as good with his words as he was bad with them.
This time, she’d not bothered to him her plan. She’d ironed his clothes, passed him the towel, picked up his laundry, made him breakfast which wasn’t good enough as per him, packed his lunch, and bade him Goodbye, just as always. She did smile wryly many times, but he’d left noticing her years ago.
She could never have a decent conversation with him – he had an habit of drawing conclusions on his own. He never really let her speak, only made her listen. She could never touch his emotional side, if there was one. For him, a conversation was always about blaming her, making fun of her, ascertaining her faults and sometimes comparison with others. She herself took not to voicing her feelings soon after.
And, now, she will probably never need to speak. She held out the chocolate to her daughter. Both of them dug in the bar together. They had done this often. The little girl smiled and laughed, she loved her mom sharing the chocolate. She laughed and cried at the same time because she knew it was the last time they were doing so. Soon enough, the laughter and the tears died away. An eerie silence followed.
Domestic violence is not always physical. Sometimes, the violence can only be felt and heard. Words speak louder than Actions, sometimes.
