Ila Das, (not her real name) carries in her heart the burden of her story. She tells it to whoever will listen, and once she starts, she speaks in a hypnotic trance, wading across a river of tears. Yet her eyes are dry and burning with a cold fire, her mouth twisted with quiet rage. Unbearable as it is to her, this dreadful true account, she keeps it alive, stoking the embers, so that we are reminded as to what depths of bestiality man can descend to, and how a family continues to suffer due to the sins of others. At the heart of the story is a forest of segun trees, a steep slope and leaves drifting down as a mad March wind rustles through it. Ila, her family and neighbours cross this eerie forest several times a day. Thus, today, she speaks of this forest as a living, malevolent entity. For this lonely cluster of tall trees and drifting leaves was where an innocent life was snuffed out, a flower's petals casually plucked, a small, bright flame extinguished. Ila's daughter's.
"She was my golden girl," she says in a flat voice. "No, I am wrong. She was more precious to me than gold. She, my Maina (name changed) danced the Bihu, was bright in her studies. At 21, she attended college and worked at a call centre. We were more friends than mother and daughter, and she told me everything. She loved her three brothers and sister, she was never cross with her alcoholic father. I wanted the best for her, and her teachers and employers loved her too. She had a way of talking to people - she was polite, friendly, very smart. For years I have worked at people's homes. It has been a life of hardship and drudgery. But Maina made me believe that a happier future was coming towards us, that we could build a better house, afford the things we needed, say goodbye to the grinding poverty that had dogged us for so long. But Maina had a different fate waiting for her. If only we knew, if only we had been more careful, if only her assailants had an iota of goodness in them.
Usually, when Maina was late at the call centre, they sent her home in a cab. She then gave us a call, and I or her brothers went down the hill to escort her safely through the forest. That March day, three years ago, we had no inkling about what was to happen. She did not call us from the bottom of the hill that evening. Seven, eight o'clock - no sign of her. We went down through the forest eight times that night to search for her. My body was like ice. Our neighbours joined in - Pankaj (not his real name) among them. Pankaj was in his forties, was married, had a family. Maina called him Borta (elder uncle). There were many others who helped in the search or pretended to. At the nearest police station, the men on duty said Maina had surely eloped. Two days passed in this way. The sun would rise, then set, and my darling did not return, did not put her arms around my neck, did not tease her sister. For how could she? She was lying deep in the forest, gang-raped, her tongue sliced off, her lifeless open eyes watching the leaves fall.
When she was found, it was all over TV. The police got to work. I collapsed as I was taken to see her. They had to put me in hospital. When I came home countless people were there to console me. Then the public staged a hartal. As people sat raising their arms, the television cameras revealed bite marks on Pankaj's hand. The police swooped down on him. Before long, they picked up the other two. Pankaj and one other had lived beside us as neighbours. All our precautions for her safety had come to no avail. The monsters were close to home.
Within four days, they were arrested. Hundreds of people gathered to ensure instant justice. But I begged them to be calm and not set alight Pankaj's house. His family had already fled under police security.
One of these criminals, also a neighbour, had always praised me to my face about how well I had brought up my children. He did this so frequently that it got on my nerves. I began to distrust him, have a bad feeling about him. He was one of the three who snuffed out my Maina's life. Sometimes I am angry with my daughter. Why has she left me with nothing but pain and emptiness? Why did she not defend herself? These days I visit all the homes which have faced such a tragedy, I have been to Jagiroad, Dhing. Everywhere the story is the same.
I am fighting for justice for my daughter. I will do so till my last breath. I sit at court hearings, my eyes boring into the handcuffed criminals. Many people help me in many thoughtful ways.
Our troubles are far from over. Hooligans have beaten up two of my sons. My 18-year-old daughter is circled by motor-cycle youths on the road. Policemen in civil dress protected her for some time. Maina's passing has snapped the link with my husband. He has been an alcoholic and a layabout and never carried out a father's duties. If he had been more of a man, perhaps people may not have taken advantage of us. At court, the monsters and their families try to scare me. Their lawyer makes me know that we would be thrown out of our home. I fear the future, for the safety of my children. Then I remember Maina's face and know I have to go on.
As a child she once was marked wrong for a sum, when, in fact, she had been correct. For days she kept on doing the sum, till the teacher marked her right. Maina, life is not a sum, my dearest. Sometimes, things just don't add up."
Indrani Raimedhi