I am the sparkle that can make the sun shy away in envy, I am the grace that can make the moon twinkle in admiration, I am the treasure that can make money go green with jealousy and I am the love that can fill even stones with sheer warmth. I am a pair of earrings, embezzled with the deepest of love and graced by hands older than time itself. And THIS is my story.
I was born in a warehouse with crumbling walls, shady cobwebs, menacing darkness and creepy vibes. Unlike my brothers and sisters who were born in work studious dripping with luxury and opulence, my birth was a simple affair, with no one except the winds to acknowledge the monumental moment when I was born. Why, you ask? Because I was an illegitimate child, created as a rich man’s gift to his mistress. The hands that created me were calloused with years of hardship, but they were gentle and full of love as they shaped me.
I was very young when I realized that I was different from everyone. No, not by appearance. If you saw me, you would say that I was just as good as anyone: a perfect harmony of gold and diamonds strung together to create a wonderful bliss. I was not different from my brothers and sisters by origin, colour, class, caste or shape.
But I was certainly different and this difference resulted from the way I was treated. Unlike some of my brothers who were well cared for, polished and cleaned every year, I had never known what a gentle caress felt like. I was never taken to opulent parties full of fun, frolic, glamour and glory. Contrasting, it was years before I ever saw the light of the day. Unlike my sisters, who were a source of pride and joy to their owners, my mistress always had tears in her eyes when she saw me.
My mistress always kept me locked up in an old almirah, away from the rest of the world. With nothing to keep me occupied, I spun fairytales. Fairytales of happiness, grief, anger, love, jealousy and every tale brought respite from this heart numbing stillness that seemed to cling to my world. Days turned into months and my heart became only marginally lighter. The days (and the nights) were dark, but I hung on to the hope that some day I would be able to see the sun.
One day, I was rudely disturbed from my sleep when my mistress took me out of the cupboard. Feeling her gentle caress, my heart filled with joy. Instead of the usual tears, she wore a bittersweet smile and it was enough to tell me that this was the love that I had been yearning for. And in that moment, I swear, everything was perfect.
Suddenly, the front door slammed loud enough to jolt me out of my reverie. With loud, resounding footsteps, the rich man walked towards us, sending shivers sown my spine. What followed could only be described as a battle: words flung, fists slung, accusations hurled and within minutes there were tears streaking down my mistress’ cheek.
In a split second, hysteria possessed her and she started destroying anything and everything she could lay her hands on. And this how, in a quick flick, I was hurled out of the window, onto the pavement. That was where I lay, half-dead, for a long time, in hopes that someone would pick me up and give me a chance to rewrite my story.
SHE’S OBVIOUSLY HURTING. CAN’T YOU SEE THE TEARS AND THE FEARS. STOP IGNORING. STOP NEGLECTING. START CARING. START CHANGING. THIS WOMEN’S DAY, LET’S PROMISE WE WON’T EVER KEEP QUIET ABOUT DOMESTIC VIOLENCE. FOR OUR LOVED ONES. FOR OUR NEIGHBOURS. FOR OUR SOCIETY.