The Fragility of Being

By Roshan Tara

My heart pounds, loud in the silence, but all I hear is the ache inside. I’m not afraid, just a little nervous, convincing myself this is the right thing to do—that after this, everything will be over. This feeling, will no longer torment me.

I think of my family—Mom’s smile, Dad’s pride, my sister’s care, my brother’s bickering. They’re just memories now, burned to ash in my mind. “I can’t anymore,” I whisper, my voice breaking, as the blade promises to stop the pain.

My eyes fall on the photo frame on the table—a faded snapshot of Mom holding me as a baby, both of us wrapped in a soft blue blanket. Her smile is so wide it hurts to look at, like she knew something I’ve forgotten. That was the start, wasn’t it? A moment when the world was small and safe.

But how did I end up here—eighteen years old, sitting in this dim room with a blade in my hand?

The lamp flickers, and I close my eyes, letting the years pull me back to the beginning.

I was born on 16th August 1996 in New Delhi, the capital city of India. Not in a hospital, but at home.

You might be wondering how that’s possible. But let me remind you—in India, everything is possible.

What happened was—on 15th August, which is also Independence Day in India (a national holiday), my mother felt pain in her stomach. My father took her to one of the biggest government hospitals in Delhi. (We weren't rich, so private hospitals weren’t an option.)

They admitted my mother to the gynaecology department, where many other women were already screaming in labor pain. This terrified my mother. She was very young—only 17 years old—when she was about to give birth to me. Yes, it happens in India. Even now, girls are forced into marriage at a very young age, even though it’s illegal.

They laid my mother on a blood-stained bed. My father complained to the hospital staff, but no one listened. Then my grandfather arrived. I forgot to mention—my grandfather was the chief doctor at that hospital.

When he saw my mother’s condition, he called all the doctors in the department and scolded them. They apologized, saying they didn’t know she was the chief doctor’s daughter-in-law. After that, they gave her a private room and a clean bed.

The doctors and nurses began checking on her regularly, but my mother was already too scared. She begged my father to take her home. He eventually gave in and brought her back home that night, without telling my grandfather.

Everything seemed fine—until dawn on 16th August, when my mother went into labor.

My father called the dai, a traditional midwife who lived nearby. (In many parts of rural India, dais are still trusted for childbirth.) She came with a group of older women to assist.

My father waited outside nervously. It started raining heavily.

Then he got a phone call from a friend. The company he worked for had shut down. He was jobless.

But right at that moment, he heard my first cry.

It was exactly 7:30 AM when I was born—and exactly the same time my father lost his job. What an irony.

But for my father, none of that mattered. He came running into the room. One of the women handed me to him, saying, “It’s a girl.”

He held me carefully in his arms, like I was the most fragile thing in the world. I was sleeping peacefully in his arms, like his arms were the safest place in the world.

My father couldn’t stop looking at me.

A week after I was born, my father decided the whole world needed to know how happy he was. He threw a party and invited everyone he could think of—neighbors, relatives, even his old school friends. The house was filled with the smell of biryani, sweets and cardamom tea. My mother stood in the corner with her arms crossed, glaring at him.

“Why would you spend all our savings on this?” she scolded, her voice sharp.

My father just smiled, the kind of smile that lights up his whole face, and said, “She’s our first child. I’m so happy I don’t know what else to do! Jab tak mai zinda hoon, tum logo ko paiso ki chinta karne ki zarurat nahi hai. (As long as I am alive, you all don’t need to worry about money.) I’ll find another job eventually.”

Everyone adored me that evening. I was the first child in the family, and my mother had dressed me in a pale-yellow gown that made me look like a tiny princess. People kept touching my cheeks, saying how fair and delicate I was, as if I might break if they held me too tightly. And honestly, they weren’t wrong—I was weak and fragile, always getting sick. Maybe that’s why everyone fussed over me.

For a whole year, my father didn’t have a stable job. He did anything that came his ways just so we could get by. Then, on my first birthday, he went to a small shop to buy me a cake. That’s when he ran into an old friend who had just started a new business.

“Come work with me,” his friend said. “I’ll pay you well. Start today.”

But my father shook his head. “Not today. Today is my daughter’s birthday. I came here to buy her cake. I’ll start tomorrow.”

Whenever my mother tells me this story, I laugh and say, “Maybe I wanted you both to only look at me for the first year. That’s why Papa lost his job when I was born!”

When I turned six, life had changed a lot. My mother was always busy taking care of my two younger siblings. Yes, I had siblings now—a younger sister and a younger brother. My sister was born during the Diwali festival, and she had the temper of a firecracker. She fought with everyone over the smallest things. I used to tease her by saying, “You’re adopted. We found you lying near the garbage dump while buying firecrackers,” and she would burst into tears and complain to our mother.

My younger brother was born in the cold December of Delhi. Unlike me, both of them were healthy and strong. Maybe that’s why my parents still fussed over me more—I was always the fragile one. I didn’t talk much or share my feelings with anyone. I’m not sure why I was like that, but it didn’t mean I was lonely. In fact, I had more friends than my siblings because I was good at drawing and singing. My studies were average, but my talents made me popular in school. My siblings, on the other hand, were top of their class—total bookworms.

I remember one day when my father bought me a shiny new bicycle. I rode it everywhere with my friends from the neighbourhood, never with my siblings—they were too busy with books. I loved being outside, riding as fast as I could, feeling like I was flying. But one day I went too far. Nobody knew where I was. My mother searched the entire neighbourhood, but I was nowhere to be found. Panic set in. She called my father, and soon even the neighbours joined in, looking for me as the sun started to set.

I can still picture it—the moment my mother spotted me. I was coming back, hand-in-hand with a girl from our street whose name I can’t even remember now. I had lent her my bicycle and was giving her directions back home—because even as a child, I was good with directions. But I had fallen somewhere on the way; my knees and elbows were scraped and bleeding.

When my mother saw me, she ran toward me. First, she slapped me hard across the face—my very first slap—and then she pulled me into a tight hug, crying like she never wanted to let me go. I can still feel the sting of that slap, but I can also still feel her trembling hands holding me close.

After that, my bicycle was taken away, and I was on house arrest for a while. It wasn’t the last time my health worried everyone. I used to faint often as a child, and because of that, everyone—my parents, my siblings, even my friends—treated me like I was made of glass. One wrong move and I’d break. Trust me, I hated being treated like that.

The rest of my childhood was like any other Indian Muslim girl’s—filled with rules and warnings. Yeh mat karo, waha mat jao, aise kapde mat pehno,( Don't do this, don't go there, don't wear clothes like that) don’t talk to boys. Friendships with boys were strictly forbidden. But how was I supposed to follow that rule when I studied in a co-ed school? I sat in the same classroom with boys, sometimes even next to them because our teachers made us sit roll-number wise. I never told my parents about this because they wouldn’t understand. Sometimes parents don’t really see the small struggles we go through.

My younger sister was like a second mother to me. Even though she was younger, she always took care of me in ways I didn’t expect. For example, when I was in school, I never knew how to braid my hair, and braids were mandatory. Every morning, while my mother was busy making breakfast, my sister would patiently braid my hair without complaining.

And then there’s my brother—his obsession with me is something else. If you’ve read Japanese Mangas like Demon Slayer, Mashle, or Black Clover, you’ll understand the kind of fierce, protective bond siblings have there. My brother is a huge fan of those Mangas, and he follows their characters like it’s his job. I’ve scolded him so many times, saying, “You have two sisters, not one. Show some obsession for Noor too!” But he always shakes his head and says, “She can protect herself, but you… I don’t trust anyone around you.”

I know why he says that. One day, when I was home alone, a man pretending to be a salesman tried to kidnap me. Even now, the memory makes my skin crawl. I was lucky—saved by a close friend and his brother who happened to come by at the right time. That day still terrifies me whenever I think about it.

When I turned sixteen, I wanted to do something rebellious, like any other teenager. So, I did the most unexpected thing—I made a boyfriend. And not just that, he was Hindu. A Muslim girl and a Hindu boy—sounds like a K-drama, right?

You might be wondering how this all began. Well, let me tell you my love story from the start.

He and I were born around the same time, and I know this because he’s my neighbour. His name is Pankaj. We were childhood friends. He was very handsome even back then, but as we grew older, we stopped talking or playing together much. We went to different schools, joined different coaching classes, and got busy with our own lives. But love has its own way of finding people.

I started noticing small changes in his behaviour whenever we crossed paths. The way he’d look at me felt different—soft, lingering. I wasn’t sure at first, but my assumptions were confirmed during the Holi festival. That day, everyone was outside, drenched in colours and laughter. He was on his terrace, playing Holi with his friends. I was in my room, watching from the window. When he saw me, he didn’t look away. He just kept staring at me, colours smeared across his face, smiling faintly like he had something to say.

You can call this our khidki wala pyaar—love through the window. My heart raced, and I quickly closed the window, but I couldn’t shake the warmth in his gaze.

From that day on, Pankaj made it his routine to sit outside his house with his friends, looking toward my door every few minutes. His house stood right across from mine, and it felt like he was waiting for me to step out—like my appearance was the main event of his day. Honestly, I didn’t like this kind of behaviour. Yes, my heart raced a little because of him, but it felt like he was trying to announce to the whole world that he liked me. I didn’t understand him. If he really liked me, why couldn’t he just come and tell me?

You might be wondering why I was so annoyed—well, it wasn’t like I hadn’t been proposed to before. I had been, many times. But I rejected all of them—not because of Pankaj, but simply because I never felt anything for them. And just so you know, Pankaj fell for me first, not the other way around. I liked him only as a friend, or maybe a little more than that, but I didn’t really understand my feelings at that time.

One day, I got tired of his silent staring game. I sent him a blunt message; I told him to stop this strange behaviour. And, “If you have something to say, just say it to me directly.” A few days later, he finally messaged me back and wrote, “I love you, Sana.”

Seriously? That was it? That was his grand confession? It felt like someone had thrown a damp cloth over what could have been a magical moment. That was the worst proposal I had ever received. Then he asked me to be his girlfriend—just like that. I stared at the message thinking, Seriously, dude? This is the best you can do?

 But I gave in. I’d known him since childhood, I trusted him, and I knew he was a good guy. Still, I told him, “You have to propose to me in person. Only then will I say yes.”

A few days later, on a bone-chilling January night in Delhi, when the whole world was asleep even the street dogs were curled up in silence, he called me out to the balcony of my house. I put on my hoddie and stepped out, shivering. Then I saw him—climbing up to me with the help of a wobbly ladder, his breath misting in the cold air. My heart thumped, partly out of fear that he might break his neck.

He stood there, eyes shining, and finally said the words, asking me to be his girlfriend. For a moment, it felt like we’d stepped straight into a Romeo and Juliet scene, my balcony turning into some sort of stage for his brave, awkward love story—except one thing was missing. That idiot didn’t bring any flowers. Not even a single rose! He totally threw water on all my romantic fantasies. But I couldn’t go back on my words now, so I had to say yes.

We had to keep our relationship hidden—because, well, you know why. A Hindu-Muslim relationship is treated like it’s India and Pakistan trying to be friends. People always have something to say, and we both knew the history that comes with it.

I once read somewhere that a first kiss tastes like lemon. Honestly? It doesn’t taste like anything. Ours didn’t, at least. It was just… tasteless, like our relationship eventually became.

In the beginning, it was exciting. My phone lighting up with his name made my heart skip. We’d steal glances across our balconies, sharing secret smiles. But as months passed, the thrill started to fade. Every day, he’d call, wanting long conversations, while I was drowning in my studies. My senior year was a storm of physics formulas, chemistry reactions, and endless maths problems. He, being in the commerce stream, had more free time—and he couldn’t understand why I didn’t. “You’re always studying,’ Pankaj would say, his voice sharp over the phone. ‘Can’t you skip one evening for me? I don’t ask for much.’ His words made my stomach twist with guilt, even when I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.”

Some nights, I’d stare at my textbooks, his missed calls blinking on the screen, and feel a strange mix of guilt and frustration. His need for attention started to feel heavy, like a chore. I realized I wasn’t looking forward to talking to him anymore.

Still, I stayed with him for two whole years. But eventually, I realized the truth—I didn’t love him. It wasn’t love at all; it was just infatuation. So, I decided to break up with him.

Six months after our breakup, Pankaj still kept messaging me, sometimes calling again and again, saying how much he missed me and wanted to get back together. I ignored his messages, left his calls unanswered. Eventually, the calls stopped. I thought he had finally respected my decision. But I was wrong.

On my eighteenth birthday, I got a call from him. His voice was soft, almost pleading. He said he just wanted to meet me one last time, to celebrate my birthday together. I refused at first—there was nothing left between us, so why go to such lengths? But he kept insisting, and in the end, I agreed.

I lied to my family, telling them I was going out with my friends because they wanted a birthday treat. My parents didn’t object, and my siblings also played along—probably because they were secretly planning a surprise birthday party for me. I had already overheard their plans, but I kept that to myself.

I left for the address Pankaj sent me. It was a farmhouse, far away from my house, tucked away in some quiet corner. When I arrived, Pankaj was waiting outside. As soon as he saw me, he ran up and hugged me tightly. I told him I had to leave before 5 p.m., and he nodded.

Inside, I noticed three other boys were already there—but no girls. A strange discomfort crawled over me. Pankaj assured me that this was his friend’s place and that their girlfriends were on their way, just running late. He handed me a soft drink and asked me to sit. The other boys were eating and drinking from the table. Soft music played from a speaker in the corner. I trusted Pankaj—after all, I had known him for years—but for some reason, unease settled heavy in my chest that day.

After finishing my drink, Pankaj asked me to dance with him since the others were also dancing. I refused, but he grabbed my hand and dragged me onto the dance floor. After a few minutes, I started feeling dizzy, my head spinning and my body heavy. Then someone came towards me and forced a bottle of alcohol into my mouth. I resisted, pushing against him, but he didn’t stop. With all my strength, I shoved him back and stumbled towards Pankaj, asking him to take me home.

Instead, he slapped me across the face, hard. “This is what you get after abandoning me,” he spat.

I could barely see now. My vision was blurring, my head pounding. Something was mixed in that soft drink—I was sure of it. The room spun, and then someone pushed me onto the ground. Panic rose inside me. I felt hands—two grabbing my wrists and pinning them above my head, two more forcing my legs apart. I struggled with all the strength I had left. “No! Please, no! Don’t do this! Leave me! I beg you!” I screamed again and again, but all I could hear was their cruel laughter.

Then I heard Pankaj’s voice close to my face. “You didn’t just reject me—you killed the version of me that knew how to love, now you deserved to be treated like this”.

Tears streamed from my eyes. I didn’t have much energy left. My throat was raw and burning from shouting and pleading. “Please… Please... Please...” I whispered, but no one listened.

He began undressing me. He yanked my top upward, unhooked my bra, and started squeezing my breasts before licking them. I felt my body betray me, exposed and powerless, as his hands erased every trace of who I thought I was. I fought to push him away, but someone was still holding my hands down. “No! Please, please have mercy on me!” I begged, but they ignored me. Then I felt his hands move downward, fumbling with my jeans. I tried to scream again, but someone shoved an empty alcohol bottle into my mouth, gagging me.

Pankaj undid my jeans and yanked off my underwear, then forced himself inside me. He pounded on me again and again like a hungry animal. I had no energy left to resist. I just lay there, feeling nothing but the tearing pain in my lower body.

Then someone pulled the alcohol bottle from my mouth only to force himself into my throat. I felt like I was dying from the inside, like there was nothing left of me. I lost consciousness at some point. I don’t know when they switched places or how many times, they did it. I only remember lying there, wishing for death to free me. 

I came to my senses with the continuous ringing of my phone. The world around me was still blurred, spinning slightly as I tried to focus. My body ached all over, every muscle screaming when I tried to move. My clothes were scattered across the floor, torn and crumpled like discarded paper. The farmhouse was silent. I was alone. Pankaj and the others were gone.

I don’t know how long I lay there, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling, my mind both empty and unbearably heavy, like a stone sinking in deep water. My hands trembled as I pulled my torn top over my chest, the fabric catching painfully on my raw skin. My jeans were nearby, one leg inside out. I forced myself to sit up, each movement a sharp reminder of the violation, the pain radiating from deep inside. My throat burned, the bitter taste of bile and something metallic lingering.

I didn’t cry. Not then. The tears had dried somewhere between my last scream and the darkness that swallowed me whole. Instead, a numb hollowness settled over me, like my soul had been scraped out, leaving nothing but an empty shell. I managed to dress myself, each button and zipper feeling like a small act of defiance against the shame threatening to drown me.

Stumbling out of the farmhouse, I felt the late evening air bite against my skin. The sky was bruised with the last traces of sunset. By the time I reached home, I slipped in through the backdoor, thankful it was unlocked. I went straight to my room and locked it behind me.

My sister’s room is right next to mine. She heard my door slam and came knocking, her voice anxious. “What happened? Why are you so late? Why weren’t you answering your phone? Do you know how many times we tried to reach you? We planned a surprise birthday party for you, but you weren’t here! Mom and Dad are so worried.”

I swallowed hard and replied, “My phone was on silent. I’m not feeling well… my stomach hurts. I just need to rest.”

“Is it serious? Should we go to the hospital?” she asked.

“Let me sleep tonight,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steady. “If it gets worse, I’ll call you.”

She hesitated, then sighed. “Okay… but don’t try to endure it. Call me if you need anything.” She walked away, and I heard her door close.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, stripped off my clothes, and stood under the shower. The water was scalding, then icy, but I didn’t care. I scrubbed my skin until it turned red and raw, as if I could wash away their hands, their laughter, Pankaj’s voice hissing in my ear: “You deserved to be treated like this.”

But the water couldn’t erase it. Nothing could. The physical pain was one thing, but the weight in my chest—the betrayal, the shame, the filth I felt—was heavier. I sank to the bathroom floor, the cold tiles pressing against my knees, and stared at the swirling water disappearing down the drain. I wanted to vanish with it.

When I finally returned to my bed, I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, the memories crashed back in vivid flashes. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe properly. It was as if I had forgotten how to breathe. My head spun. I tried to scream, but no sound left my mouth. I clawed at my skin—my neck, my hands, my face. Every inch of me felt filthy, alien. I scratched until I saw blood. The pain of my nails digging into my skin was bearable—almost welcome—but my mind demanded more, something to match the chaos inside.

So I sat at my study table, a blade trembling in my hand.

The blade felt cold against my skin, its edge a cruel whisper of release. My hand trembled as I pressed it harder, and then I saw the first thin line of red. Blood began to flow, warm and unrelenting, sliding down my wrist and dripping onto the table. My vision blurred, but I didn’t stop—this felt like the only way to silence the storm inside me.

Then came the knocking. My sister’s voice, soft but worried: “Are you okay? Did your stomach pain get better? Why aren’t you answering me?” I didn’t respond. My silence only made her more frantic. I heard her footsteps fade, then the sound of hurried whispers. Moments later, my brother’s voice joined hers, loud and panicked, followed by the thud of their bodies throwing themselves against the door.

The lock gave way with a deafening crack.

When they burst into the room, what they saw must have been horrifying. I remember my sister’s scream, my brother’s face turning white as he rushed to grab my bleeding hand. My parents, alarmed by all the noise, came running upstairs. The sight of them—the fear, the tears in their eyes—made something inside me break. I smiled at them. A small, strange smile, as if it was my last gift to them. And then the world tilted. Darkness swallowed me.

When I opened my eyes again, the white ceiling of the hospital loomed above me. My body felt heavy, my arm bandaged, and the steady beep of a monitor filled the quiet room. I was still here. Alive. But I didn’t know why.

The days I spent in the hospital felt like a haze—white walls, muted voices, and the constant smell of antiseptic. At first, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I was terrified, convinced that if my family knew the truth, they would look at me with disgust, maybe even abandon me. I thought my relationship with them was fragile, like a thin thread that could snap at any moment.

But I was wrong.

When I finally told them everything—every horrific detail of what Pankaj and those boys had done—I expected anger, shame, maybe silence. Instead, my mother held me so tightly I could barely breathe. My father’s hands trembled as he wiped away my tears. “You did nothing wrong,” he said, his voice steady, almost fierce. “They will pay for this.”

Later that night, my mother sat beside my bed, her fingers brushing my hair the way she used to when I was little and sick. “Do you remember the day you got lost with your bicycle?” she asked softly. “I thought my heart would stop beating until I saw you coming back, bruised and smiling. I slapped you, remember?” Her voice cracked as tears filled her eyes. “I slapped you because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

She reminded me of the mornings when my sister would braid my hair because I didn’t know how, and of my brother who always hovered like a protective shadow, calling me his princess. “You have always been the heart of this family,” she said. “Nothing—nothing—will ever change that.”

And she was right. My parents filed a complaint against Pankaj and the others for sexual abuse. They stood beside me, every single step, while I faced the unbearable memories, the questions, the stares.

It was in that moment I realized how fragile life really is. If my sister hadn’t knocked, if my brother hadn’t broken down that door, I wouldn’t be here. I would have been just a memory, a story told in past tense. I thought I was only fragile on the outside, like a glass that could break if dropped. But now I know I’m fragile on the inside too. And yet, even in my fragility, I’m still here.

Life can shatter in an instant—but sometimes, the pieces can still be held together by the love of those who refuse to let you fall apart.

By Roshan Tara