Freedom, by Kirthi Jayakumar, Chennai
Born in Bangalore, Karnataka, and raised and currently living in Chennai, Tamil Nadu, Kirthi is a dust mote dancing inside a sunbeam.
Editor’s Note: This story is a composite of the author’s experience working with survivors of gender-based violence, not a story about a specific individual.
_________________________
You listen to the news on TV, your head bent down as you do the dishes. The Prime Minister says things are grim, and that the country must go under lockdown. You hear a hum of conversation in parallel: your husband is on the phone, worrying about what this might mean for business. You gulp, your heart beating faster, as you worry about what this might mean for you. You know the answer, but you wish it wasn’t so. You break into a sweat, but you power through anyway.
That night, you learn that your husband is angry that the lockdown may mean huge losses. You learn this through his punches, slaps, and angry and incoherent yelling. You wonder if this may only worsen, and as the days go by, you have your answer, and it hurts.
One night, after a terrible round of beating, your back feeling like a red-hot piece of iron and your head pounding as though it were hosting a drum solo, you sit by yourself as your husband sleeps peacefully, as though nothing happened at all. You scroll mindlessly through Instagram: pictures of banana cake (why is everyone baking banana cake anyway?), dogs doing silly things to entertain their humans, and post after post on work-from-home woes. You pause, your thumb hovering a second longer as you read: Stay home, stay safe.
What home, what safe? you wonder, your heart splintering into a thousand pieces.
And that’s when you find it: a sign. A trusted friend has shared a story, giving you a lifeline. Make a sign with your fingers on a video call, like this, it said. And I will know you need help.
Your mind begins to race. A thousand thoughts rushing, as if in a torrential downpour. What if you’re caught when you make the video call? What if he finds out? Is there really a way out? Where do you go, now that all the help you need is no longer an essential service? Who can you trust? Will he be angered even more?
You make the decision. You have a plan. You want out, and you deserve to get out. You make your way to the toilet, walking gingerly, one foot in front of the other, not making a noise, not even breathing loudly. You latch the door tightly, switch on the light, position your phone against the sink with the camera facing you. What’s that? A sound? Is that him? Your heart beats furiously as you make the sign with your fingers, take a picture, and send it to your friend. You go back to bed, nervous, but determined and hopeful.
The next morning, you walk out of your home with as many of your things as you can take, the domestic violence liaison standing there in your support. Your mind is a determined thing of glory as you leave, never to look back again.
_________________________
(This story was prepared for an “Imagine Another World” online storytelling workshop held October 16, 2020.)
Protect yourself and others from COVID-19: wear a face covering over your nose and mouth, practice physical distancing from other people, and avoid settings that are crowded, indoors, or involve close contact. More information about how to stay healthy.