She was sent off everyday
With a bag on her back
And a peck on her head
Little blob of curiosity
She changes hands from one adult to another
Ushered into the house of learning
She is delighted
And rattles off one question after another
She places a hand on her face,
“Miss, what is this?”
“This is your nose. N-O-S-E. Nose”
She opens her mouth,
“Miss, what is this?”
“This is your tongue. T-O-N-G-U-E. Tongue.”
She rubs her belly,
“Miss what is this?”
“This is your stomach. S-T-O-M-A-C-H. Stomach.”
She puts a hand between her legs
“Miss what is this?”
Miss squirms, alarmed at this display of ‘indecency’
“Nothing at all dear.
Take your hands away from there now, would you?”
The lesson is over
Perturbed eyes looked away
Perturbed hands lead her back to the picture books
But the answer she wants will not be found there
Her little picture book has no pictures of what is between her legs
‘My body’ it says
Bold lettering. Color glittering.
But what she asks, it does not tell
Miss does not tell
Miss was only told to teach
How to spell. How to read. How to talk.
Not what is between her legs
The little girl sits down to spell ‘nose’
To use what she is taught
Not knowing that
Life is what will really educate her
Soon. Very soon.
Another classroom. Another year.
Another book. No pictures now.
Only words. Big words.
She must be 7. May be 8.
What does it matter?
She will soon have lived one life too many
Died one death too many.
For now, she sits alone
Happily lost in her book.
While he watches. Quietly.
He watches her legs swing beneath the table
He watches her fingers play with the hem of her skirt.
Quietly.
He walks in.
She looks up as he casts a long shadow over her book.
Tall frame. Big hands. Dark skin.
And a face she will never be able to recall.
He asks her if she would like to play
She politely declines
But he picks her up anyway
For it was not consent that he was looking for
‘Come here, I’ll teach you a game’
She tries to wriggle away
But he holds on with a tenacity that sends a shiver down her spine
‘Hold this. I’ll tell you how to play.’
She looks down at where his hand is
Between his legs
Like the day she had asked Miss
But the question had been too indecent.
Perturbed eyes look away
Perturbed hands try to push away.
He rattles her arm
She shakes her head
This is not like any of the games she knows
His breath is in her ear now. His voice inside her head
‘Hold It. H-O-L-D it.
She pushes. He slaps.
She whimpers. He sneers.
Her knees buckle, throwing her skirt askew
He puts in a hand, takes out a life
And she screams a scream that will never be heard
A scream that dies behind the hand that holds her mouth shut
The mouth that will never be able to ask questions again.
He gets up, and stalks off without a word
Tall boy, whose face she will never remember
But who will come to haunt her every day for a week
And every day she will think of her old class.
Her old Miss. Her old question.
Which the picture book hadn’t answered.
‘My body’, it had said
Bold lettering. Color glittering.
But was it really?
For now there were new things
Things which had not existed in her lexicon moments ago
Questions which had long been evaded
had now been answered
Now she knew what was between her legs
Pain. P-A-I-N. So much pain
Shame.S-H-A-M-E. So much shame.
Self-loathing. Legs squirming. Eyes brimming. Head pounding.
Big words.
Words which were felt before they could be spelt.
Words which were learnt too soon . Too soon.
Questions which were answered too late. Too late.
For now she does not wiggle her nose. N-O-S-E.
Or stick out her tongue. T-O-N-G-U-E.
Or laugh with a hand on her stomach. S-T-O-M-A-C-H.
Or put a hand between her legs
Not after another one has been there.
No more ‘My Body’
She doesn’t know whose it is anymore
She doesn’t know what to do with it
She doesn’t want it
No more ‘My Body’
Only pain. Only shame. And big words.
Only because while she was asking questions
We had looked away
The questions were too ‘indecent’
What about the way she had to find the answers then?
Our job was only to teach
So she had been ‘taught’.
How to spell. How to read. How to talk.
But how do you spell a pain so deep that no word can describe it?
How do you read when your eyes lie dead?
How do you talk with a tongue that has been cut off?
How do you live in a body that is not yours anymore?
She has been taught
The lesson was over
Education had been a job for life.
A student of the Integrated Program in management (IPM) at IIM-Indore, Jasmine Kaur is a vociferous feminist, confused Punjabi and a passionate poet. She loves reading, debating, cogitating, eating butter chicken, writing and Pink Floyd, not necessarily in that order.
