Behind My Dupatta

By Vanshika Gupta

When they screamed at you, slapped your face, broke things,

hit you with a broom and kicked you to the floor—

they came down hard on you, my girl.

Your world crumbled into pieces, and a little of you was gone.

My darling, remember how I taught you it’s a one-time thing, that this too will

pass.

And then—again—you were at their mercy.

You begged, and they hit you harder. Your lips bled, your limbs ached.

It was something trivial—you don’t remember the cause—

but they were furious, and Their fellow-feeling left you scars.

Those scars healed on skin but not the ones on your heart.

My darling, I urged you to close your mouth and fold your hands, to give them

everything you have.

Their ego crushed your self-esteem. Every punch, every kick was like a stone

shattering glass, yet I told you they were your honour.

But, my love, I should have warned you: all you would receive in return is a

slap, a punch, a kick, a threat to be killed.

They called you whore, bitch, liar, fat. They rubbed salt in your wounds and

blamed you for them.

They pulled out your fingernails and chopped off your big toe. No one found

out.

And had you said otherwise, they’d have told everyone you were full of lies.

Everyone would have believed them. Our leaders would have remained silent.

Our people would have fought for the one who committed this. Our temples

would have reeked of blood and rot.

It’s plain to see you’re the one who’s insane here—not them.

My darling, I know this isn’t loving. I know you were weak, and I was unable

to help.

I should have taught you that this world is not made for your generosity;

innocence has no place here.

Our words had no meaning in their red eyes. I should’ve warned you long ago

that this world is built for people like them.

I should’ve starved you myself. You should’ve grown used to the feel of my

dupatta snatching away your breath.

I should’ve taught you to bear the pain that comes with being stoned, with

being you.

My darling, I should have hidden you behind myself since the day you were

born—just as I stay hidden behind your father. It felt safe that way. I swore.

I can see the truth beneath those scars: the mask that hides your soul.

No—why don’t you listen to me? It feels as if I’m ordering you to speak with

your tongue cut, as if I’m asking you to swallow cement.

I know it feels like we’re killing the light in you, but why don’t you

understand? These people can’t see light. All they can see is fire.

It’s safe behind me, I promise. I’ve stayed hidden for years. I’m sorry. I didn’t

teach you that you were here to placate them, that you, my child, would never

be the person you were meant to be—because they will scratch your magic

from your bones, pull it from your spirit, strangle it from your body.

You will not become who you are because they will kill you long before you

try; they will not regret it, because they could. They will laugh while holding a

knife to your throat. They will rape you, bugger you.

They were the ones who couldn’t be human. But you loved them, and they

promised to love you too.

You tried to fight back but had no chance; their power was too strong—you

grew used to the attack.

But you’ve been through enough; you proved your strength this day, and now

you’ve hacked your way out with a knife.

My soul, my life, my child—this was not the place for you. All the demons

have converged here.

I am sorry. I should’ve made you familiar with this while you were alive.

Remember how I told you to go slowly and quietly, to encounter yourself in

their thoughts because I was scared?

Now, my beautiful girl—stay strong; and if they still catch you up there, set

them on fire. Burn this world to the ground and make us know: heaven does

not exist. Heaven does not exist.

By Vanshika Gupta