About Time.

Sometimes you need a trigger.
You need a trigger to go back in time to that place you boxed up and hid from the world, and sometimes, from yourself.

I needed quite a few. Not because I didn't want to do this. But because I didn't know how much I would be able to say.

Here's my story.

My aunt, my mother's own sister got married when I was seven. It was one of the happiest days of my life. Dressing up, unlimited food and soft drinks, no one to keep an eye on us - pure child heaven. My aunt's husband soon became quite a hit, or so I thought. He would cook well, read a lot, indulge us kids - be the perfect new addition to the family. Things were as they were supposed to be. Till I hit puberty.

My sister and I used to go to their place for stayovers. Those were fun times - good food, a lot of TV and treats. We liked those visits. Till one morning, when I woke up to a massive weight on my body. I was 11. My aunt's husband was 36, my mother's age. He was on top of me, kissing me on the mouth, touching my private parts, hurting me. I froze from the horror of it. Closed my eyes in fear that I was having a nightmare. Scared that I'd done something terribly wrong and this was some punishment. Afraid to move, lest he do the same thing with my younger sister. He did. She hit him. I couldn't. And this was repeated every time we went to that house.

I know the questions that will come up here - why did I keep going back? Why did I not tell my parents? Why did I not put a stop to it?
Yes, I didn't. I couldn't.
a) I didn't know what was happening and why.
b) I was in denial. I was living in 2 worlds. One where everything was fine. One where nothing was. So much so, that I don't even remember my sister talking to me about how he attacked her too. I blanked the memory out.
c) I didn't know what to say. No one spoke to me about safe/unsafe touch. What would I tell my parents?
d) I thought it was my fault.

It went on. And along with it, went on the extra tight hugs on special occasions when the family met, the ogling, the trying to catch me alone in spaces. I wish I'd had the courage to open up and tell my dad. He would kill that man.

The regular abuse ended when I was 13. My dad passed away and we stopped going out much. By this time, I'd shut up completely. The once talkative girl in me had been silenced when the trauma of losing my father added to the war inside my head.

I would meet him regularly at family gatherings. I would touch his feet. I would wish him on his birthday. I was living in the world where nothing was wrong. I was doing everything a niece was expected to do. And every night, I was crying myself to sleep. Every night, I was spending countless moments worrying about the safety of his own daughters.

I grew up living these two lives - one for the world that didn't know my secret and one where I lived with my fears. I would freeze if men touched me or groped me in public vehicles, I'd get palpitations if someone followed me on the road, I'd blame myself anyone made a pass at me.

In college, during a lecture on gender, I came to know what happened to me had a name - child sexual abuse. I still couldn't come to terms with it. The first time I spoke about it was to my boyfriend when I was 23. He told me he would "accept me despite my dark past." And because he did me this "huge favour," I'd give in to every demand he made. I'd endure every torture - mental, physical, sexual. I was willing to. Who else would accept me with my flaws? I clearly didn't deserve better behaviour. Till one day, good sense prevailed and I couldn't take it anymore.

I spoke to my family after breaking up with him. And instantly, it became my responsibility to make sure that my aunt's marriage didn't break. Nothing else changed. He still got treated with lavish meals for "jamai shasthi", I still wished him on his birthday (else he'd feel insulted) and accompany my mother to choose his gifts for every special occasion.

At 26, fifteen years after the first instance of abuse, I found the strength to speak to my best friend. She was livid. She listened. She didn't judge me, she didn't question my actions, she didn't ask me to take a step, she understood my anger, my silence, my helplessness. She held me when I was breaking apart. She was rock solid. She didn't dictate me. She healed me.

And after that, every time I spoke about the abuse, it felt like revenge. It has been a long journey since then. I've lived with the burden of keeping my aunt's marriage intact for too many years now. I've grappled with depression and anxiety, struggled with the process of seeking help, finally managed to go into therapy and confront my demons.

3 months back, I reached my breaking point when I came to know he'd raised his hand on my aunt and cousin. Not the first time he'd tortured her, but I needed to make it the last. I told my aunt. She walked out of her marriage of 26 years. And I'm glad she did.

I haven't seen him since then. When my aunt confronted him, he called my sister and I liars. He asked the same questions - why did they not open their mouths 22 years back? Why now? Where's the evidence? I don't care anymore. At this point in time, all I care about is that I don't have to see his disgusting face anymore, don't have to be with him in the same room anymore, don't have to endure his obnoxious behaviour anymore.

I will never forgive, I will never forget. That's all I know.

This disclosure is my gift to myself on my 33rd birthday. I need to point him out for my own sake. I need to stop protecting his identity for my own peace of mind. I need to win this battle inside my own head. I have written anonymously before. I won't anymore. The #MeToo movement has been my trigger. I'm grateful.