Prologue
It is around 1 am. Summer nights have never been colder than this for Gayatri*. Into the depths of the woods where no one can trace even the dead, she scampers for life. She can’t ask for help. She can’t rely on anyone. Occasionally, when she hears echoes of human voices, she escapes into the darker patches. The only light she can see comes from a nearby power plant. She is perhaps lost—lost because of unbearable pain and a directionless journey. With bruises all over the face, she staggers. The faraway light is again visible. “I remember these lights—they are visible from my village. I am going in the right direction,” she murmurs.
At the break of dawn, when faint sunlight enters the impenetrable forests, she reaches her nanihal. She sits for a while, sips water, hugs her mother and tells her that he punched and slapped her, and snatched her mobile. She, however, could not tell her that she was raped twice. There was a sense of shame and disgrace, coupled with the trauma of the threat—agar tu chup nahi rahegi, tujhe jaan se mar dunga.
Gayatri, 18, a resident of Singrauli district in Madhya Pradesh, received a call on April 20 at around 4 pm. The person on the other side said: “I teach at your college. Your hostel scholarship amount has been transferred to my account. If you meet me at the Tikri High School and sign some papers, I will transfer the amount to you.”
It was already evening and Tikri is around 40 km from her house. At first, Gayatri refused but after “madam” insisted, she took a bus and went to Tikri. Upon reaching and calling the same number, “madam” said that she would send her son to pick her up. Around 6 pm, her son came on a black bike, sporting a helmet and a pair of black gloves. He drove her into the woods. Frightened, she wanted to scream. But there was nobody to hear her cry.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der September 11, 2024-Ausgabe von Outlook.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der September 11, 2024-Ausgabe von Outlook.
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