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Sakshi Singh

Inspirational Others

3.3  

Sakshi Singh

Inspirational Others

A Trail of Crimson Blood

A Trail of Crimson Blood

5 mins
264


I walked across the eerily dark streets illuminated in small patches with the silvery moonlight, passing the obnoxious stench of open gutters into another alley. Bells of the nearby temples ringing in my ears, mindless graffiti adorning the nearby walls and the sweet smell of ladoos that invigorated the atmosphere, also rejuvenated my soul. I could not help but smile at the picturesque sight that lay before me, necklaces made of bright orange marigolds, vermilion powder ready to adorn the foreheads of idols, sweet smelling jasmines, fresh fruits and ripe coconuts being sold in tiny shops around the narrow streets, people milling around them, desperately haggling to finally find a price of agreement. The yellow flashlights were completely covered in swarms of flies who seem to have established their nest in the tall poles.

It was impossible to not fall in love with India at that time. I did indeed fall deeply in love with the country, I fell for its winding roads, its small houses of mud and brick, its rich and vibrant culture and most of all the pure hearted people who lived within its walls. It was a relief from the congested buildings and gaudy skyscrapers back in New York. There is indeed great beauty in simplicity as they say. Even though I was a foreigner – a firangi, an unfitting piece in this exquisite puzzle, I felt more like home here than anywhere else.

The sound of loud wailing and high-pitched screams snapped me out of my fantasy. I now looked at a giant crowd that had formed near the temple gate closing in menacingly surrounding a woman who was helplessly cradling her wailing child in her arms, muttering soothing words in an attempt to calm him. The woman herself was petrified by what awaited her, as she crumbled upon seeing such a huge crowd of angry looking men. The tension of the scene could be felt in the atmosphere, the jolly happy streets had given way to uncomfortable silence.

The crowd parted ways to make way for another man – the head priest. His eyes blazed with anger and disgust as he scrutinized the lady, his fists clenched and unclenched , and his muscles tensed, the look of concentration upon his face clearly indicated his anger. People spoke in hushed, quite whispers, while I heard closely trying to decipher the situation with the broken Hindi I had learnt in a week. I caught the words custom...period.... not to enter temple.... humiliation and suddenly the words clicked forming a picture in my mind, a picture I would never ever like to see in real life. Horror was etched upon my face as I looked back at the scene, the head priest was now inches away from the shaking woman, sweat lining her neck. In a flash, I witness the heinous scene unfold right in front of me eyes, the wailing child being snatched from its mother while she was pulled by her hair, while loud, ear piercing screams begged for help. I wanted to speak up – I really did, I wanted to just run up there and stop this scene of utmost tyranny, but I did not – I did not because I am a monster.

The women’s screams were now muffled as the crowd had started yelling the word “Ashudh” on top of their lungs. My head exploded with thoughts and then came the point when I just could not be a mere spectator to this unfair and unjust tyranny. I somehow ran up the temple steps without even realizing it, and the next thing I knew, I had wrenched the priest’s death grip from the innocent women’s hand.

The shouts had ceased and every living body stared at me, their eyes burning my already enraged soul. I could not take it anymore, I released the latch that had been forcing my brain to keep all the thoughts in and let it all out – let all the frustrations out. “This woman you are insulting over here, never did nothing to deserve this, she was innocent as her child. You insult her because of a trail of crimson blood? That trail of crimson blood is the reason why each one of you are alive! If your mother, sister, your daughter would have to go through this in the future, how would you feel? How would you feel when she lets out a scream of agony, when you look at her pained expressions, when you observe her blue-black bruises?”

I paused and beads of sweat lined my forehead as I gazed nervously at the crowd in front of me, which was now talking in hushed whispers. Then my eyes found the women and her grateful smile took all my worries away, burying them in a pit and I could not help but smile in return. Then a voice boomed in the atmosphere. I could not understand what was spoken, but I did feel the impact of a hard blow when it came into contact with my jaw. I shut my eyes and bit my lip in an attempt to not yelp in pain as the severity of the blows grew with each passing second. I blanked out for a few seconds and the last thing I remember was blaring sirens as I was being hauled into an ambulance. I woke up in the white, uncomfortable hospital bed as the events of last night came rushing into me. With a sigh, I hoped that no person should ever suffer the same fate as her, I hoped that my actions had had an impact, an everlasting impact and could be the spark required to ignite the thirst for a change.

-12 years later-

“Supreme Court of India slams Sabarimala temple entry tyranny.” The bold black headline immediately caught my eyes as tears of joy welled in my eyes. That treasured feeling of knowing that you ignited the will, the power for change is something that I had never felt before. One act of kindness indeed creates an endless ripple.


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