my mother wasn't the first to cry when I was born.
Of course, I didn't know this, but it's a small anecdote my parents love telling me. Even though I tore her open, my mother never shed a tear. No, it was my dad that cried when he held me.
"Full-on sobbing," my mom told me, laughing the entire time. "Your father has always been a crybaby." My dad never refuted this, just smiling like he could never imagine not crying.
Now I wonder who it was that cried first, my mom or my dad, when faced with the remains of my body, lifeless and broken beyond repair- like a ragdoll that got used one too many times.
Maa, they broke my hips, crushed my glasses so they stuck into my eyes, walked all over me with their boots, tortured me for their pleasure and had their way with my body, then strangled me to death. Left me there on full display to rot. But can you still call me your pari one more time?
Paa, they used me because I was a girl. Had I been a boy they would have killed me but kept my dignity, but unfortunately, I'm not a boy, so did that mean I am not deserving of even a dignified death? nine to ten of them Paa, I couldn't even see most of them- can you still call me meri bachi once more?
I don't know what I did wrong, Maa, I only ever listened to your words. I couldn't stand what they were doing in that building. Paa, I've always been your brave girl, the one who couldn't stand injustice. Do you wish I had stayed quiet on this? Do you think I may have survived if I acted like I didn't see?
I promise I didn't do anything wrong Paa, I never meant any harm. I swear I didn't tempt them Maa, I had my kurta and my doctor's coat.
My stethoscope broke Maa. My doctor's coat is red now.
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