‘Help me’.
‘Please’.
‘Sir’.
‘Madam’.
‘Please’.
But you just walk on by. I’m not worthy of your attention. Just another piece of ‘living garbage’. A sore spot in your pristine world. Roadside scum.
Pause a moment.
Please.
Think.
Is it my fault? My fault, that I was born homeless? Paisa less?
My mum was like ‘that’ too.
Is it any wonder then, I own nothing? Not a home. A piece of land. A bank account. Money. A PAN number. An Aadhaar card.
Not even a shred of clothing, I can call my own.
Nothing.
But my mother loved me. As long as she was with me.
Until…they took her away.
Away.
To ‘that’ place.
I don’t know where ‘that’ place is…but it’s a place you never come back from. Others told me.
I missed her. But I survived. Learnt to survive, is more like it. It is not easy. But you learn.
From sadness. From hurt. From humiliation. From pain. From loneliness. From anger. From fear.
I know, you’re wondering why there’s no mention of happiness or laughter. Happiness teaches you nothing.
NOTHING.
As for laughter…it’s a disguise I wear with unease.
The streets have been my home. My school. My playground. And life has been my teacher.
You have seen me.
Often.
Perhaps, every day.
But I don’t register. Make a mark or effect a blip in the serene graph of your placid existence.
Even today. Even as I lie, in full view. About to bring a new life, or lives, into this…my cruel world.
How could I even hope that you would notice me?
Me?
I have come begging to your doorstep…no…gate…many a time. Sometimes you throw a packet of leftovers my way…remnants from a dinner, 3 nights ago.
Sometimes you shout, threaten, shoo me away…do I ever complain…did I? No.
There’s always another house…another garbage bin…another ray of aching hope.
Funny.
Some of you actually pretend to care for me.
Us.
My creed.
My caste.
My breed.
My ‘kind’.
Make us come running to receive a packet of food, laid down carelessly, callously, on a pavement. Picked out gingerly from the cardboard box, in the trunk of your fancy car. You even take ‘selfies’, pose for photographs, with ‘us’ around. Always careful to maintain that ‘gap’.
You get articles published, about your ‘sterling’ work. Have it published on Page 3… (now, the cover for the food packet you laid out on the pavement).
Oh yes! You’ve been feted by your peers and fellow ‘society’ folks. Your selfless dedication has been recognised over clinking flute glasses of Champagne.
Ha!
Where were you? Where were you, when I needed you the most?
Where?
It was not that long ago. Do you remember?
I do.
I’d strayed down a side street. Into an area, new to me. An area that held the promise of food. Sustenance.
I was hungry. Careless. Foolish. I’d forgotten that every area, every street, has its own ‘boss’. ‘Dada’ (thug). ‘Don’. Predator.
“He” was there.
I saw him. Just as I looked up from a packet of stale ‘Biryani’.
He had this…horrid, frightening, cold gaze. Steady…as a rock. Unblinking.
There were 4 others with him.
They fanned out and surrounded me.
And then he began.
Raping me.
While his ‘gang’ watched.
Their eyes filled with lust.
Their entire being drunk with power and my helplessness.
I shouted.
I screamed.
I wept.
I scratched
I bit.
I hit.
I tried.
I tried.
But he didn’t stop.
And then it was their turn. The gang.
One by one.
One after another.
Until I could scream and fight no more.
Until I was bleeding.
This…all this… in a public place. In full view of the passers-by who used this street.
You… yes, you passed me too. In the back seat of your car, ears glued to the mobile phone. Giggling and laughing. I could hear you.
I looked at you. I couldn’t speak. Not a sound escaped my lips. My tongue was dry. My eyes had no tears left to shed.
Sure. You looked at me. A glance. A ‘disinterested’ glance. And then you looked away.
‘It’s me’- I tried to say- ‘Meena. You called me that. You know me. Help me please!’
But I couldn’t.
I was just another disgusting creature for you… “immoral” too perhaps.
I tried to get away. Believe me…I tried. But even in my dreams---- I could not.
For 5 days it continued.
Night and day
Repeatedly.
Sometimes I’d manage to get a bite to eat, drink a sip of water from a nearby bin. Sometimes… these moments of respite made me believe it had ended.
It was over.
Finally.
But no----- they were always around.
Always.
5 days… 5 days later… they left me.
Suddenly.
Bleeding and sore.
N0---- don’t pretend.
Please.
You saw me.
You and some of your kind.’
And you looked away.
Drove away.
Walked away.
There was nobody who would take up my case.
Nobody who cared about my plight.
I didn’t warrant a Page 3 article or a photograph now.
As for the do-gooders- ‘It’s only natural that this happened to her’, they say, as they stroll past me.
The pain is more intense now. Soon a new life will come into the world.
My world of Penury.
Homelessness.
Fear.
Anxiety.
Hunger.
Humiliation.
Pain.
What should I tell my little ones? What should I tell them about the world?
Did I…No… do I deserve what happened to me?
Sure. You think I am dirty, filthy, disgusting.
Immoral.
Well… You have the right to your opinion.
‘This’ is what happened to me.
Me.
‘This’ is what I am.
‘This’ is who I will be.
Always.
I am a female street dog.
But…even after all I have gone through…
You still call me a Bitch!
ME?!
A bitch.
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