How does one write a story? I am not out to write fiction nor an autobiography. There are snippets that flash through my mind from time to time, plaguing and torturing me, refusing me peace of mind. As I grow older, I feel a constant rage for not having done anything about it. Rage for keeping it bottled up. Anger for letting the injustice simply pass by unaddressed, unpunished, unaccounted for.

A person who is passionate about social justice and human rights, whose religion is honesty, equality and humanity, whose straightforwardness makes others weary, I have deprived myself of the fairness of support for the horrific experiences that I have gone through as a child. What made me put this aside despite its torturous reminder? I was mute then, but why have I been silent as an adult?

People talk about 'coming out' when it is about sexual orientation or a condition that indicates deviation from the social norm. Does one 'come out' if one is sexually abused? Sexually abused as a child for that matter? Half a century of my life has passed by. Why am I coming out with this now?

I have two wonderful daughters with whom I can open up even about the most personal issues of my life. They seem to like hearing my stories. They have a healthy respect for my family, the openness in my upbringing. I was born in a privileged family and blessed with a relatively smooth life. But whose life has only the good without the bad? Which life is a bed of roses without the thorns? I have shared these snippets with my children. Not to seek compassion, but to tell them why they need to be alert in life, beware the injustice that goes on in people's lives without anyone knowing or lifting a finger about it. Sharing these dark snippets with them during a visit in a beautiful, serene, picturesque setting of mountains and lakes started me thinking. The decision to record this string of random yet persistent incidents came to me while flying through the clouds with my young one sitting next to me. My daughters unknowingly inspired me to document these scraps of horrific memories with the hope that it will bring some constructive awareness of an issue about which we continue to remain naive.
Dreaded Afternoon Naps

Back from school. Lunch over. Adults retired to their rooms for siesta. My quiet, reserved, grandfather resting in his room. My aunt, exhausted after work, retired to her room engrossed in her book or taking a nap. Another aunt also resting in her room downstairs. Cousins scattered around. My father is at work. The unemployed, alcoholic devil is trusted by the other adults to take me to one of the many rooms in the large house for my afternoon nap. The game starts. I pretend to fall asleep. The devil starts to stroke me. He takes my hand between his legs. I feel it through his clothing. He brings his finger between my thighs. I control my breathing, try to breathe as if sleeping. Am I doing it right? I change the pace of my breathing to indicate deep sleep. Of course, he was not fooled. He knew I was awake. What went on in my mind during those moments? Why can't I remember? I was a thin waif of a girl. So thin and bony, that my cousins used to count the knots of my spine. Why did he do this to me? Perhaps even the most educated people in Bangladesh were not aware of the word paedophile. But didn't even the concept, the idea exist then? How could they not know what was going on in the next room? Did they not once take a shorter nap or come to the room for something and discover what was going on? Why was I not protected?

Blotching Memory
So, how did I behave when I woke up from my 'naps'? How could I go about with any normalcy? I couldn't. I hardly ever spoke for one. I was an introvert lacking social skills. I was a slow eater and could hardly eat enough. I showed very little scholastic aptitude in the early years till my teens. I continued to have low concentration level and poor memory as an adult. My biological mother had passed away when I was two days old. The only person with whom I could totally relax, be playful, was Abba. I shared almost everything with him, even as an adult, but not this. What was I protecting him from?

“My Father Does it, Why Can't I”
At one stage, we were sixteen family members staying at my grandfather's house. This meant we had to share rooms. We female cousins shared a room. The double panelled bedroom doors used to be closed at nights, but not always locked. I would be half awake knowing that a male figure would sneak into the room, lift my clothing and I would curl up tightly tucking in the covers around me. The figure once whispered “my father does it, why can't I”, not as a question but a statement. Many years later I reflected on the atrocity of this mind. A person, who was not only aware of the abuse that was going on, did nothing to stop it but actually used the knowledge to justify his own attempted abuse. 'Attempted', as they remained failed attempts but revolting nevertheless.

Horror of Privacy
My father was allotted a beautiful double-storied house with a fantastic garden. We moved out of my grandfather's to this wonderful house, joined by three maternal cousins. Now we were four children, my parents and domestic help. It was a big house. My two male cousins shared one room, my female cousin and I one. My father used to feel very proud that we had our own rooms. We treasured the privacy.
My parents were professionals who left the house in the morning and came home late afternoon. My two male cousins and I would be back from school by lunch time. The routine after returning from school was to hit the shower and then lunch after which we would retire to our rooms. The domestic help would take their lunch and rest in their quarters. Our bedroom was attached to a veranda, which was accessed from the main hall upstairs, but also had a connecting door to our room. The devil knew our routine. He would appear at the house in the afternoons. The moment I heard the door bell, I would lock both doors of my bedroom, taking recourse to 'sleep'. No amount of knocks on the door could wake me up. He would wait in the veranda. The privacy that I would enjoy in my own bedroom would be tarnished these particular afternoons. I had to pretend, I had to protect myself. Our new house granted me protection.

On Constant Watch
It was not only the father who recognised the opportunities of finding unprotected children in a large, silent house. The son understood too. I wonder why their visits never coincided. He would attempt to touch or make inappropriate gestures even in front of the others. This meant I had to stay alert even when others were around. The father did it secretively while the son would show a damn care attitude about it. Being on constant watch, month after month, year after year took its toll on this mute, mouse like teenager. The mental torture persists to this day.

“Loving Uncle”
The devil finally moved out of my grandfather's house. This meant I could safely visit my grandfather's house without having to be on guard in case I find myself alone with the creep. But I had to face a different challenge, a constant reminder by my aunt about my lack of gratitude for not visiting my “loving uncle” who had showered so much love and affection on me, who cared so much for me. If she only knew what he cared for and why he was so “nice” with all the girl children!

Finally, this coming out is a little different from the usual kind. It is generally related to a situation where a person steps out of the norm by choice. In my case, an injustice was thrust upon me. I did not choose to be sexually abused. Yet, I kept it buried inside me and suffered as a result of it. My coming out, however, has the same goal as of the other ones: to open up about a stigma. To make people aware of a world that we tend to carefully avoid, a problem that needs our full attention for our children to grow up in a safe environment, without having to look over their shoulders for possible sexual menace. It is also time to send a message to those repulsive creatures that we will no longer remain silent.