The Pen Wielders

Inspirational Drama

4.7  

The Pen Wielders

Inspirational Drama

The Blooming Flower

The Blooming Flower

4 mins
593


"I beg for you to stop Rishabh, you're hurting me."

 

"You are a bitch, this is what you deserve," Rishabh yelled.


Like the Black-Eyed Susan lays dead in the cold winter breeze, I lay half-dead on the floor of my room, bleeding and moaning in pain. Rishabh, like every day, came home in a drunken state, with a belt in his hand to beat me up, for the sins in have never committed, for the mistakes I never made. 


I, Pankhudi Sharma, was a cheerful, fun-loving and vibrant girl until I married Rishabh Shrivastava, a businessman, The elder child of the royal family of Rajasthan. Rishabh, before marriage was a nice man, he loved me, cared for me, respected my family and acted as a son to my parents. But all that glitters is not gold. 


Since the day I became Mrs. Pankhudi Shrivastava he tortured me, beat me up, his parents accused me of not bringing enough dowry and treated worse than an animal. I stayed shut, hoping that they would stop, the humanity in them would make them realize their mistakes. I was wrong. They didn't stop, in fact, it increased with every passing minute. I felt choked. I decided to run away to my dad, to tell him that his little bud was smashed even before growing into a flower. Because there were some people who hated me, but more people who loved me. 


I was wrong. Again. My parents sent me back to those monsters for the sole reason 'society' and the saying "Girls, once they are married, they live where their husband is."


Maa told me once, "Pankhudi, we are girls, we need to tolerate. He is your man, he has power on you. You need to be there with him. He does everything for a reason. Listen to whatever he says and he will stop."


It's been two years today since I was married, he still beats me every day and just like today, I lay half-dead on the floor and in the morning, with a smile pasted on my face, I start working again only to be lying on the floor at night. 


I didn't cover my bruises, I let flies sit on them. Maybe then he would stop torturing me. I was wrong again. 


But today when I decided something for myself for the first time ever, I don't think I can be any more correct. 


It is 3 A.M. in. the morning. Rishabh is sound asleep. I pack my bags and get out of the house and silently as I can. I am now standing in front of the police station, with a bloodied face and purple-ish arms, not to forget a smile pasted on my lips. I file an F.I.R. against Mr. Rishabh Shrivastava and his family and against the Sharma family, for torturing a 21-year-old girl and not supporting her when she needed it. I see Rishabh in the locker. I smile intentionally, with all my wounds covered. 


"Pankhudi, why are you lying, tell them how much I love you, tell them how really we are... " Rishabh kept shouting and pleading. I didn't turn back.


**3 years later**


"Maa, can we go to the park after classes?" Shubh asked.

"Sure baccha," I said kissing his forehead. 

Shubh, my and Rishabh's son. I was 2 months pregnant when I ran away. I ran for Shubh. And I was right. 


I am now a teacher in Dehradhun, away from the people I called mine, from the society who questioned me and supported Rishabh, who is still behind the bars. I had won the case against him. He was punished with life imprisonment. I had won that day. I stood up myself. I raised a voice for all the girls fighting for their peace. 


Being a teacher, I want girls to be educated to stand for their rights and stop what is wrong. And to all the boys like Shubh, I want to teach them to respect girls. To stand up against anything done wrong, because I don't want any Rishabh Shrivastava to be born again. 


It is summer and the Black-eyed Susan has bloomed once again. Bright as sun and vibrant as I am now.



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