The Vitriol

I held her tightly, her face right next to my heart. I held her strong in a perpetual grip. It was only a ball of my bedspread that I had curled up in a frenzy, but that felt right. That felt like home. That felt like myself again. With the dying flicker of the lamp, I drifted a world apart, in times bygone, another lifetime. Those were wistful times, endearing times.

I found myself in my parents’ house again. Moonlight sieved in on the bed through the window, hugging my skin. The room boomed with the illustrious laughter of my sisters. The littlest one clung on my back and her teddy clung onto her. The five of us began our little tea-party. I just loved adorning them, making dresses for them and styling their hair, just like mother did. I was fourteen again. I might not have been an absolute angel, but I was prim nonetheless. I laughed and laughed and just laughed. In the darkness of that fetid night, I had found my beacon once again. I danced around it like the psychedelic moths. I let that moment own me. She was me. I was her. I felt safe. I had found the place where I belonged.

Desperately,

I dug deeper and deeper into my ball to anchor myself there. For a moment, as the eyes bled the vivid visage into my senses, I had a déjà vu. For that second, the same warmth sifted through my hollow chest filling my heart. I could feel like myself again. I could feel her gentle innocence and soft gaze that told me everything will be just fine and that look that assured me that I still had everything with the comforting smile that said, she understood!

I had found my solace somewhere there, but my eyes would not stop flooding. Down in the throat, the knot kept growing tactile. My chimera was shaking. I kept my eyes fixed, afraid to lose the hold, but the knot kept twining hard and hard. I kept struggling into the void, fighting frantically to hold onto a single memoir. But, the prismatic beams of the moon slithered away into sinister silhouettes clawing her with them. I had lost her again, back in the world where nothing made sense anymore.

“……..Holy God! I’m a monster, Papa!”

I woke up with a start, fizzled and alabaster. The bewilderment of reality was sore. My one good eye was so parched that it stung. My mouth was dry. I got up and switched on the night lamp. My eye twitched some more. I wanted to find myself a glass of water as fast as I could, so that I could shut the lights again. My fading eyesight was bothering me, but I was so thirsty that I decided against worrying about it in that moment. I finally found the jug of water. I poured it in a glass and gulped a mouthful, only to retch the same in a shuddering reflex.

My entire body collapsed in throes of agony. I threw the glass away and went back to bed. But, I could not sleep. Slumber just spiraled into that hollow in my chest. It just did not feel right. Something had gone wrong, terribly awry along the way. I did not belong here. I had an urge to jump off the window again. Somehow, that felt like the easier thing to do. I actually felt like I could do it. There was no throbbing inside to imagine the fall, not a single skip in there. It felt right and spontaneous, something as natural as reflex. I sighed, crossed my arms around my chest and wailed muffled heaves of anguish. I clutched my belly and wreathed under the stifling of the knot and the pent-up hole in my chest.

My name is Mili. I am twenty-six years old. I am an acid attack survivor. When I was sixteen, I was married off to a man about twice my age due to financial crisis at home. My in-laws were never happy with me as I did not bring much dowry. Within two years of marriage, my husband had killed my first-born daughter and forced termination of my female babies twice. During my fourth pregnancy, I was carrying a daughter again. But, I did not tell him out of fear and fled to my parents’ house. After a few days, he broke in there and dragged me back. There, he and his lover tricked me into drinking a glass of acid. My mouth, stomach, digestive system and trachea were scorched. It has been a constant pain since then. I can only be drip-fed. I can never bear a child again. But, that is not the end of my macabre tale. After months of excruciating pain and searing suffering, I finally stabilized. With the support of my family, I raised my voice against my perpetrator. My family was threatened by my in-laws. But, we did not withdraw the case. An year later, he was released on bail. I was going to the local grocer’s shop with my youngest sister when my husband and brother-in-law appeared out of nowhere and attacked us. My sister succumbed to fatal burns while the vitriol blistered seventy-two per cent of my body this time. It was a pain like no other. I can never put it down in any language that I know of or in any vocabulary that I can recall. It was like all the bones of my body were crushed together with every inch of skin being peeled off while the ligaments were being shredded apart. It was a slow, grinding, devastating torture.

When I opened my eyes after the long medically induced coma and looked at myself again, I was aghast. “Holy God! I’m a monster, Papa!”, I had wailed. The right side of my skull was partly blighted and half the hair was lost. My right eye was wiped out while the left one had little sight left. My neck seemed to be soldered to the shoulders and was permanently tilted. My fingers, right ear and nose were fused. My lips were gone, and left eyelid charred. I would sleep with eyes open. Constant exposure to light and dust started damaging my left cornea. Eating, walking and even breathing had become a lifelong struggle since then. What people do not understand is the attack may happen once or twice, but the pain never subsides as the acid keeps disintegrating the cells.

I did not step out of my house for the next four years. Psychological distress had spent me completely. Six years, eighteen surgeries and two court battles later, my family was impoverished. I lost my mother on the way. My father was too weak and bed-ridden. For what it’s worth, I had to step out of the confines of the house again. My three remaining sisters and father have given up everything to keep me alive. It had been a very difficult journey. It broke me, mutilated me, maimed me and tore my family apart. But, when I finally rose after six long years, I realized I had missed on a lot of beautiful things around. God had given me a third shot at life for a reason. I had to earn it now. I worked in shops, educated myself and my sisters and finally landed in an N.G.O. that helps sculpt the victims again. That was the turning point in my life. I never looked back after that.

I learnt that every year about 1500 people suffer from ‘vitriolage’ around the world. Rejection of marriage, resistance against sexual advances, dowry implications, monetary issues, jealously and vengefulness are the common causes of acid attacks. Violent attacks on Israeli families and women by Palestinians have become mundane order of the day. In India, seventy-two per cent of the assaults revolve around females. This number has been continuously increasing in the past decade. The perpetrators get away easily most of the times. In 2013, amendment to the Indian Penal Code was introduced through the Criminal Law (Amendment) Act, 2013, making acid attacks a specific offence with a punishment of imprisonment not less than 10 years extendable to life imprisonment with fine. The infamous incident of acid assault on four sisters urged the Supreme Court to reprimand the authorities for proper regulation of acid sales over the counter. It restricted acid sale to individuals above eighteen years of age. One is also required to furnish a photo identity card before buying acid. However, these laws remain on paper only. A lot of field work is required to realize this in practice and curb this menace.

I am but one of the numerous victims. I could not help save my little one, but I have got thousands of sisters to look after now. Stories of some of them scare even me, to death. However, I found that whenever I took two steps on my own, ten new helping hands ushered in to push me through. Who was I hiding from since so long! Of course, there are people who stare at me, some even name call me, a few neighbours do not let their children come near me, and some say I should have died that day instead. I will not say these remarks do not hurt me. But, whenever they do, I hug myself again, drift back to those wistful memories and come back reassured. I feel beautiful all over again.

“The face you burned is the face I love, I am flourishing.” – Laxmi, an acid attack survivor