The Shame

Why do the hands not quiver when they reach out to invade, to plunder, to outrage? Does the mind not say, “Stop!” Does it not question the actions about to take place? Does the heart not agitate profusely? No, wait! That rapid beating of the heart is not fear; it is the excitement and adrenaline talking. When have they ever listened to reason?

Do the hands not remember the times when they rose to caress someone lovingly, when they were raised to protect, to assure, to condole? Do they not remember all the times when someone ran a comforting hand over them, held them back, safeguarded them, loved them? Does the brain not superimpose images of a loved one, does it not flashback to siblings, friends and family? Does the conscience not recognise the wrongness about to happen? Why isn’t it saying, “No.  There is still time. Turn around!”

The hands reach out, nevertheless.

An alien sensation washes over — it’s cold, it’s warm, alternating and peaking as panic sets in. The brain momentarily freezes; it creates thresholds—you’re safe as long as it not there, okay you’re safe as long as it not here—it’s desperately rationalizing. The assurances are not working. It’s not just one, there are many. Despair takes hold and sets free paralysed limbs and loosens the tongue. The screams can be heard; it’s not longer within. The hands and legs take on whatever they can reach. It’s a struggle their determined to win —pulling some off here, dragging some off there, but they are slowly weighed down. The numbers are overwhelming. It’s not working. It’s getting closer; there are no more safe zones, the brain has no more placations to offer. It’s telling you you’re doomed. Shut your eyes, and it’ll be gone. The eyes comply, the brimming tears slip out but the nightmare doesn’t. Its stranglehold is very real, it’s bruising, leaving marks, its intention is to hurt and maim. Belligerent, pleading, broken, fighting, crying, begging, praying —the body and mind tries it all. Then numbness comes in. Slowly everything fades, subdues and is finally gone.

The hands are now satiated, they slap and slide against other fellow hands, shake other hands, congratulating each other on a job well done, on helping with the fun, and they move on.

Somewhere, another set of hands try to restore dignity, they try to pull it together but then when they can’t offer any more succour, they cover her face in shame.

This piece was written in reaction to the Assam molestation case.