She wondered how many other women celebrated their rape anniversary.
Fancy water sprinkled flowers, greeting cards, copy-pasted facebook replies and overseas skype calls with the rapist.
The night was as vivid as ever. Smudged mascara, cheeks taut with makeup, hennaed hands, millions of pins holding together an ensemble of fakeness. Fake jewellery, fake designer lehanga and above all, fake smiles throughout the night.
Mr. MNC from NYC was a myth. A blur of blurred HIs over LED screens and a balding hairline seen through the haze of that one coffee meet.
He appeared equally drained. The sweat glistening on his bulging cheeks. His breath heavy with the effort of tucking that tummy in the sherwani.
A touch, a grasp, an amateur forced kiss. Before she knew, his hands were everywhere. Unpinning, unwrapping, untwining.
Undoing. Undoing it all.
The moves were sloppy, his breath reeking of Old Monk and chicken tikka. He was soft and gentle. That was all she could say. Unmindful of her frigidity and weak tired whimpers.
Before she knew, it was all over. Forever.
He called now and then. And visited when he could. She lay with him. Pretended. Acted. Sighed. Endured.
She wondered how many other women celebrated their rape anniversary.
- Akshay
Fancy water sprinkled flowers, greeting cards, copy-pasted facebook replies and overseas skype calls with the rapist.
The night was as vivid as ever. Smudged mascara, cheeks taut with makeup, hennaed hands, millions of pins holding together an ensemble of fakeness. Fake jewellery, fake designer lehanga and above all, fake smiles throughout the night.
Mr. MNC from NYC was a myth. A blur of blurred HIs over LED screens and a balding hairline seen through the haze of that one coffee meet.
He appeared equally drained. The sweat glistening on his bulging cheeks. His breath heavy with the effort of tucking that tummy in the sherwani.
A touch, a grasp, an amateur forced kiss. Before she knew, his hands were everywhere. Unpinning, unwrapping, untwining.
Undoing. Undoing it all.
The moves were sloppy, his breath reeking of Old Monk and chicken tikka. He was soft and gentle. That was all she could say. Unmindful of her frigidity and weak tired whimpers.
Before she knew, it was all over. Forever.
He called now and then. And visited when he could. She lay with him. Pretended. Acted. Sighed. Endured.
She wondered how many other women celebrated their rape anniversary.
- Akshay
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