Burned!
In my dreams I am whole, with my easy laughs, ready quips, fleeting annoyances, steady love of ice cream. I am walking, happy. But I shiver. I walk towards the sun. I don’t see the gaping pit ahead. I wake up shaking, sweating, hot and cold. Then my hands are on my face, and I feel the scars, your gift.
Your gift erased so much of me, my face, my window to the world. They say we are nothing without memories. We are also nothing without a face. This visage, this countenance, this mirror where the world sees itself reflected and knows its place. How do I tell the world who I am? I look in the mirror and my one watery eye sees a stranger, a horror story with no end. Your branding iron left a seething script of your story of hate. This thing that used to be a face, a recognition, a mirror is now a dark wall where all light ends and nothing reflects. Where there used to be me, my signature smile, my left cheek’s dimple, unevenly set eyes — it’s all gone. I remain a nameless, faceless ghost visible only in my misfortune.
When it first happened they wanted me to utter your name. I wouldn’t defile my mouth. The neighbors, the relatives, even the police came asking. They came to condole, to comfort my father, my mother, my brother who seethes in daily rage. But I know they came to see me — the remains of me. Curiosity beats empathy but sometimes that’s the only vehicle to my door. I wrote it down once and gave it to the police. My mother took a photo of that piece of paper with my brother’s phone. When did she learn to take photos with a phone? She knew I wouldn’t utter it again, so she kept the “evidence” she said. But I know she keeps this paper to rekindle vengeful fires in her heart. My gentle god-fearing mother is Kali who’d happily kill for me.
My father still cannot look at me. I miss how he would cup my face kiss my forehead every morning. Proud Papa. Now he won’t touch my face, just puts a hand on my head looking away. Sometimes I hear him crying when he thinks I can’t hear. My mother hardly cries. She asks him harshly, “What’s the point?” She is hard. So hard I fear she will break. Only softens when she brings me food. Patiently lets me eat, gently wiping the drool from my mouth. My lips’ bare remains, mere lines relearn how to contain food. Grateful I can still taste, I tell her how much I love it. She won’t acknowledge this joy. She keeps vengeance alive.
I can’t recall the particulars, only the horrific pain of your carnage. Or why? Later they said it was because I wouldn’t “return your love”. “Love”? Yes Love! Love? I want to laugh! I forgot that sordid history. Somehow the acid erased that too; clean, flat, blank like the contours of my face laid bare. Who were you? Perhaps better I don’t remember or I may join those that blame me. She could have said yes, she could have married him, she could have accepted him, they said. I heard them in my stupor from the painkillers when I came home after the first 17 surgeries. Then my mother took care of their glib advice. That makes me smile but I can’t anymore. The skin on my face borrowed from my thighs, my stomach stretches too thin to bridge a smile. I’ve tried it in the mirror — a contortion for a smile. I cringe with my eyes without eyelashes but with perfect painted eyebrows.
It’s been over two years since I came home. I must have nightmares but all I remember are dreams where I am whole. At first I prayed for a merciful death. But now I don’t want to die. The sun must shine one day. I listen for the birds singing in the morning. My good eye loves the sun. I still marvel at how well my mother sings. I put my head on my father’s knee when he comes home every evening. His blessing stalls the night.
I accompany my mother to the market. I cover one side of my face. I want to keep my old face. I can’t let her go. I cook with her, I learn to sew with her, little things and soon my hands will be steady. If I ever run into you I will bare my whole face and let you see. Let you relish what you wrought. Your hatred manifesto. I will let you flinch at my ugly erasure. And when you flinch I will laugh. And I will walk away. You gave me unutterable pain, you scarred me for life, erased me — almost. Yet I am here. And I can make you look away. I won’t blink!
— -
Written for victims of acid attacks this is a humble and probably inadequate attempt to depict their pain. In truth this is written with deep humility for unless we walk in their shoes we cannot know the unimaginable pain they bear. I offer it with a deep empathy for their suffering, and admiration for their courage in the face of such heinous crime.
— Reena Kapoor
This was first published here on the Maitri Bay Area page.
