“Mumma meri Kummo se baat karogi?” (Mother, will you talk to my Kummo?) asked excitedly my 2 year old daughter drowning whatever my mother was
telling me on phone. I asked my mother about this ‘Kummo’ who had activated
such enthusiasm in Nyasa. “Her name is Kamala and she teaches Nursery kids in
the school. And when you send Nyasa to me, she becomes her governess,” told my
mother. So, Kummo is the one who handles my child and I better be thankful to
her. After a week when I travelled to my hometown to fetch Nyasa back, I
finally met Kummo and her sister.
My mother has been running a school in what can be called
one of the most backward districts in Uttar Pradesh. Whenever I get too busy in
my professional ‘shenanigans,’ I send Nyasa to her grandparents where she can
be taken care of in a much better manner. All the parties involved love this
arrangement. Including Kummo.
When I reached my parents’ house that noon, I saw Nyasa
being fed khichdi by a tall teenaged
girl. She was dressed in the way almost every small-town girl does: a pair of unaltered
jeans with dirty and worn out cuffs, a synthetic kurta and a shiny stole. Her hair was tied in a high pony-tail and
she wore inexpensive earrings. A dusky complexioned, completely average looking
girl who greeted me with a Namaste and stood aside to facilitate an emotional
reunion of her ward with the mother. As I learnt later that day Kummo took care
of Nyasa during the school hours when my mother was busy in her office
downstairs. She bathed, clothed, fed and even tutored the two year old. Her
elder sister, who also teaches in our school, paid occasional visits during the
school recess but Nyasa hadn’t taken a fancy to her.
As a nitpicking mother and an ungrateful daughter I observed
Kummo very closely during my stay there for one reason initially and quite
another after the first day. The girl appeared a little unstable, extremely
sweet at one moment and quite detached the other. She stared continuously at a
spot without realizing it. She ran without really having to. I found her really
irritating at times. I was waiting for my mother to come upstairs after winding
up for the day. How could she trust our most precious treasure with a girl who
was definitely mildly idiot if not totally a crackpot! I never realized in my
sanctimonious demeanour at that moment that Nyasa was MY responsibility which I
comfortably transferred to her expecting world class arrangements in a
god-forsaken mofussil.
“Mom, this girl is a crackpot, her hair is dirty and she has
no sense of hygiene. And she stares a lot. Find somebody else. Can she actually
teach? Just because her sister was a student here doesn’t mean that you have to
employ both of them.” And so on. I had
endless complaints. My mother, as usual, made an angry face which was an
age-old signal to shut up. She then declared, “This girl is a rape survivor.”
“Stop being so judgmental,” she demanded. “And, haven’t you
noticed how happy your daughter is in her company! Nyasa is an extremely
headstrong child and hypersensitive one at that. You think it is easy to find
somebody who can be so patient and genuinely caring. Why don’t you find one in
Delhi?” I was ashamed of myself on many accounts. How could I be so callous
that I chose to ignore her patience and loving ways with Nyasa and focussed on
her messy hair! That she was a rape survivor hadn’t sunk in at that moment.
“You ask me why I have employed her, so here are the two
reasons. Firstly, the sisters belong to a poor family and do not have means to
support their education. Whatever I pay them here goes towards their education.
I agree that they are not great teachers but at a nursery you don’t need
educators. You need people who can connect with little children. They take long
leaves during the exams and come back to teach once done. And with all your
gender equality activism in a metro, do you realize how difficult it is for a
girl who was raped and brutalized in childhood to survive in a small town like
ours? She is a little unstable but at least she is putting up a fight. Isn’t it
our duty to help her and the family to put the trauma behind them?”
I was suitably chastised.
Next morning when I woke up to Kummo’s shrill voice, I was
gripped by a renewed sense of guilt. Her instability was an outcome of horrible
deeds of some depraved men and it was as if she was questioning our collective
consciousness through her blank stares. Her ways did not change but my attitude
towards them did. I learnt a new lesson in empathy. Till now rape was something
distant, which happened to some unfortunate women. A woman myself, I had
hitherto distanced myself from rape, it only happened to unknown people. It
would never happen to me or my friends or family, I had thought. I had tackled
it as clinically as possible to save myself the emotional drain. When I faced
Kummo, however, all that was bound to change and it did. The reality behind her
odd behaviour and the pain behind her loud laughter educated me like no
literature, seminars or debates on rape would.
I still keep sending my daughter to my parents at regular
intervals. In the past one year the bond between my daughter and her Kummo has
strengthened. Whenever Nyasa is set to come back to me, Kamla asks about her
next visit. Last birthday the sisters gave Nyasa a cute little yellow bag. I
tried my best to stop them but their loving defiance was way stronger than my
concern towards their economic status.
Last night Nyasa asked her father all of a sudden, “Dadda,
aapko Kummo yaad hai? Aap Kummo se miloge?” (Father, do you remember Kummo? Do
you want to meet her?) What a coincidence! I was outraging against the brutal
gang-rape of a 23 year old medical student that is sending shock-waves across
the country and has jolted even the most insensitive and apathetic of cops. While
almost everyone is demanding a befitting punishment for the brutes- ranging
from public stoning to bobbitization, I am more concerned about her
rehabilitation if she survives. The brutalities suffered by her body will
unfortunately deprive her of a normal “physical” life. The doctors have said
that she might never be able to eat again. She has decided to live and has
shared the sentiment with her mother through a written note.
I pray she gives no blank stares upon recovery for I now have
at least a little understanding of what lies beneath them. And if there are any,
they must meet cheering and empathetic faces. Rehabilitation and assimilation
of rape survivors is far more important than punishing the culprits. One sneer
here or one jeer there can annihilate even the bravest of us while we are
picking up the pieces of our brutally shattered life.
* The rape survivor's name has been changed to respect her privacy.
** Image courtesy http://www.kabar24.com
