I sat there on the bed, nervously waiting for my new life to unfold.
My palms were clinging onto each other, and my breath was getting difficult to hold.

Then the door slowly creaked – and there he was… straight out of my fairy-tale dream.
Oh no… he seemed different. He didn’t carry a loving smile, but what appeared to be a devious grin.

I clutched onto my wedding saree as an unusual fear crept into my heart.
I had met him once in the presence of our families, but then he seemed so charming, so smart.

My heart started pounding as he walked towards me.
I was shaking, and the excitement of this new life did certainly flee.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me close.
He looked more and more unfamiliar as he chose to hurt… to force.

I refused…I refused. I screamed. I begged to stop.
All I could see was a monster robbing me of my dignity on top.

I was hoping for someone to hear and intervene.
After all, it was a small house… with people umpteen.

But no one came… no one came and I was lying there mortified.
I couldn’t understand how and why my respect was so brutally sacrificed.

The night passed, and I mustered the courage to walk out the door.
Hoping someone would help, looking at the evident abuse from the marks, scars, and more.

And it was seen. It was seen, yet somehow went unseen.
Until one voice teased me about the “passionate session” I may have been in.

Passionate? It wasn’t passionate. It was brutal. It was obscene.
And I wondered… would the comments be the same had my marital status any differently been?

Every time I walked past the bedroom door, a chill went down my spine.
I crossed paths with so many familiar faces who could have seen my agony, but to them… I seemed fine.

And the sky turned dark yet again.
And I went to the bedroom – angry, scared, and in pain.

There it was… that same grin appeared in the dimly lit room.
And I met the same fate.. treated like a mere commodity by my very own groom.

And then it happened… every day after that day.
I was a 21-year-old succumbing to the horrific situation unable to find my way.

I reached out to many, this time not through indirect signals or holding onto unrealistic hope.
I directly narrated the horror that I faced… but some seemed unfamiliar, and some normalized the grope.

Some told me it was my groom’s way of loving.
The other few added, After all he does for me and the family… shouldn’t I be quietly and generously giving?

Some respected elders also advised that matters behind the door between a couple must be reserved.
That I shouldn’t shamelessly blame my groom, and our tradition and values must be preserved.

And then it confused me.. it confused me whether my stance was wrong or right.
Am I turning out to be a bad wife? Is my suffering really worth a fight?

All my life, I had been an obedient daughter, a caring sister and a well-behaved, quiet girl.
Was it now time for me to become a devoted wife and not let my “unreasonable” fury unfurl?

I won’t lie — I tried to silence my pain, my suffering.
Until one day, an article about a different woman, same story came ringing.

She voiced it out. She called out her abuser. She put up a fight.
She wasn’t confused. She knew nothing about this was normal or right.

A complete stranger, yet her courage fueled mine and I stepped out of the hellhole.
And I came across a slew of similar horror stories of fellow women scarred by numerous such groom-shaped moles.

And I wonder… I wonder if these are all, or are there more like me – confused, angry, shocked?
Trying to erase the “quiet is equivalent to good girl” analogy… but scared to be mocked.

The sad truth is… we have evidence – scars, marks, torture written all over us.
But we can’t get our perpetrators punished as this is no listed crime… just another “feminist fuss“.

The only option we have is to walk out bold.. protest loud and strong.
In a hope…a mere hope that our plea someday moves the justice system and right may win against the wrong.

For us… there are no candle marches, no headlines with lasting echoes.
Just a few warriors, probably wounded themselves, walking miles to stir a change, and bring justice to the physical, mental, and emotional chaos.

Author – Shikha Sinha