The Unforgiven

Posted on November 24, 2006

2


“He has come home drunk again. I can hear him stagger into the house. I run into my room and close the door. I hear banging. I put my forefingers into my ears and the banging invades through my futile finger plugging.

BANG BANG BANG BANG. Tears roll down my eyes. My back to the door of the room, I sit down. Desperate, desolate and frustrated. He has come home drunk again.

I have known him since I was a child. I have played my hopskotch and hide-n-seek games with him. How can he do this! How can he do this! But he does it. Mocking my trust, trampling on my memories, crushing my hopes of his remorse…breaking me down with his BANG BANG BANG BANG.

I have waited too long. I have waited too long. I think crying, wiping my tears, gathering myself to get up, open the door and put an end to it once and for all.

I hear Shruti crying now. Why does he have to beat the little one. She is screaming. He is screaming louder, “I will kill you and that whore of a mother you have!” She begins to sober down, “Pappa, please beat me, beat me, don’t beat mummy! Pappa, please, beat me beat me!” I can hear her small cherubic fingers slapping her naked arms and the dying sobs of “beat me, see, beat me, beat me!”

My heart breaks. He remains untouched. His alcohol laced brain has created an unpenetrable facade around his senses. Shruti has stopped crying.

Alarm bells are ringing in my head. SHRUTI has stopped crying. I wonder if he has finally done it. I run out, trying not to panic, I run as fast as my feet take me. Involuntarily I go to the kitchen and switch off the gas, I am a trained house-wife. I see the gleaming butcher’s meat knife in the vessels’ stand. I pick it up.

I open all the closed doors and go to where Shruti is. She is lying unconscious on the floor. I hear the flush in the toilet. I am alert. As he comes out, I put the knife right through his heart. I half hoped that he would feel the pain in my thrust, he looked at me with eyes wide opened and then he fell to the floor.

I walked into the bedroom, and I give my hand to his pregnant wife. She gets up, frozenly. I pick up the phone lying next to her and dial 100. The police arrive and I am taken in.

Your honour, that is my story! Justice is what I had on my mind, as you have on yours! If I had been his wife, I would have escaped in the name of self defense. Even as I stand here, I am glad I am not his wife. And I am glad she is not anymore either!”

“We have heard the accused confess to the murder of the Deputy General of Police of New Delhi. We hereby sentence her to life in prison. The court is adjourned!”

Henri…November 24th 2006

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