Her Secret… {Guest Story}

You can’t take the words out of the writer, even you take her out of her blog. Well, since her blog Ishithaa is unwell, I have invited her over to mine. Sometimes, I feel she and I have similar ideas when it comes to writing fiction prompted by one word, but her stories, so she says, sometimes come from something she has observed, or experienced. She’s someone who cheers me up when I’m feeling down, and cheers me on when I’m in doubt about writing. Sometimes crazy, sometimes wiser than words, her head is a big storehouse for ideas. One of which takes shape into a story here. Over to you, Bhavz…

The chubby bubbly girl left from home dressed neatly in her crisp white shirt and the dark blue skirt, proudly wearing her long hair in two thick plaits neatly set in place with bright red ribbons. For some reason she loved her uniform, even though the colours were a tad boring, the combination was good and comfortable without hindering her movements like a salwar kameez would have done.

She enjoyed her school and was eager to get home and tell her mom about the surprise test paper conducted in school that she topped. Her mom would be so proud of her and might treat her to an ice cream or some sweet that she liked. She always felt her mom was the best cook in the world, but only when granny was not cooking. For when granny was in the kitchen and cooking, the aromas arising from the kitchen would make her feel like nothing else in world mattered any more.

Granny had gone back to their village more than a week back, exactly on the day her school reopened. She was heartbroken, more because granny was going away than for the reason that her two month long vacation was coming to an end.

School had begun uneventfully and things were going smooth until the day their school bus timings changed. Till 4.00 o clock she had to while away time and she found that she could borrow books from the school library and read them while she waited for the bus to arrive to take her home. Her parents had insisted that she travel by the school bus itself because other means of transportation were not safe enough for young girls to be alone in.

The girl who came back home that evening looked nothing like the one who went to school in the morning. She was glad that her mom was away in office and that there would be nobody when she reached back home. She fumbled in her pockets, the contents of which fell down. She never bothered to pick them up. Still not able to find her keys, she scoured through her satchel which was now drenched in the rain that her umbrella did not protect her from. Finally managing to get inside and lock the door, she broke down. She continued to weep all the while trying to understand what had happened to her in the last 20 minutes or so.

She recollected getting down at her bus stop. It was drizzling slightly and she opened her umbrella. Her favourite red umbrella with small yellow flowers – bright and cheerful- and stuck to the sides of the roads safely away from speeding vehicles that would splash the muddy rainwater on to her. She was humming a song and homeward bound when suddenly she felt a hand on her chest. It was then that she saw the guy on the bicycle – he could very well have been her neighbourhood friend’s age – hardly three or four years elder to her. While one hand was on her, the other was pressing her umbrella down onto her face so that she wouldn’t see who was attacking her.

Those hands wandered to a lot of places, broke a few buttons on her shirt and tried to lift her skirt. A sudden car horn made those hands withdraw from her and she ran without looking behind. She ran and ran, she felt like her lungs were burning yet she continued to run.

She decided then and there that whatever happened, she could not let her parents know what happened that evening. She was strong enough and could keep this within herself and move on with life as if nothing had happened, she could not see her parents sad.

This story is a work of fiction. Resemblance to anyone in real life is coincidental.

Poetry & writing are to me, a breath of fresh air in a life that is sometimes covered by the smoke of sorrow or self doubt. They also become the sweets I share to celebrate when life offers me a reason to. But most of all, they are to me, my life. For each word I write is a piece of my heart, a thought that just had to find its way into the world.

22 thoughts on “Her Secret… {Guest Story}”

  1. Really happy as got a chance to read Bhavya’s writing. A Big Thanks!
    About Her writing Nothing to say again because it is always AWSOME.
    And about the plot, it seems a real incident not only a story.
    Waiting to read ISHITHAA, All The Best. πŸ™‚

  2. sad but possibly true…young girls go through a lot of abuse but rarely reveal in the fear that they will be snubbed for it…. a lot depends today on educating our children on these topics..
    Nicely written piece πŸ™‚

  3. :'(
    this is just so sad and so real.. boils my blood.. we want our girls to be safe.. not this!
    beautifully, hauntingly written Bhavya..

  4. I have wrote something similar to this long back. One harsh reality of our world esp our country…. how much we grow up or develop some things just keeps on repeating.

    • Yes dear. And the strange thing is that somewhere along the lines we take things for granted, as if being abused is normal! That is what angers me πŸ™

  5. Sad story, Ishi πŸ™ But so true sometimes. Like Sheethal said, it is a harsh reality of our world and our country.

  6. I love the way Bhavya weaves simple stories to highlight such important issues. I guess almost all girls would have gone through something similar in their teen years or even at a younger age. And most of them, like this girl, would have kept it to themselves, either for fear or because they don’t want to make their parents sad. I have done that. My sister has done that. My mother has done that. And this fear and this thinking is what we need to change in our children. We need to give them a better and open environment. Freedom to speak up. Teach them to be bold and vocal. Only then can we bring down the number of such incidents.

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