Perpetrator- A Short Story

Perpetrator

I open my eyes, and try to recollect where I am. It takes me few moments to come back to my senses, and suddenly I realize my discomfiture. The book I was trying to read just before I fell asleep, still lay on my chest, my reading glasses still on my nose, the light glistening in my study, now prick my eyes, and I try to stand up from the awkward position to stretch my limbs. I put the book back, passing a glance at its midsection which is almost in ruins. One snap, and it would snap into two parts. So fragile, yet so firm; just like her.

I walk to the balcony and light up a cigar, trying to overcome the slight chill in the wind. As the smoke escapes my lips, I rest my hand on the railing and look into the silent night that depicted the city I live in. How serene it looked from here. How calm. It might have looked the same on that day too, I concur. After all, this city was a master at hiding the skeletons in its womb and projecting a calm demeanor on the surface.

As I look into oblivion, I couldn't help but to think about her, Geet.

Geet… it was her name. A young, vibrant woman I've met two years ago, whose eyes held a spark which one couldn't miss. Her posture confident, demeanor calm, she had me notice her in our first meet itself. I was one of her interviewers when she had come for a job in our company. I let my eyes pass through her documents while my colleague was at asking her questions, each of which she answered effectively. I wouldn't have looked at her if not for her unconventional answers. Unknown to myself, I was tuned into the interview and I never realized when I took charge and shot her questions, trying to put her in spot many a time, and every time I did it, I was surprised to see her answer back efficiently. It might have bruised my male ego somewhere I recall now, to see that she didn't as much blink an eye even when I deliberately try to tread on topics which many women wouldn't be comfortable voicing their thoughts about, not especially girls like her who hailed from a small town.

But she did, and that somewhere hit me in the wrong spot. After her interview, it was clear that she was selected for the post. She was all that the company wanted her to be; hardworking, honest and brilliant at her work. While I saw my colleagues give their acknowledgement about the girl's selection, I sat there, immersed in my thoughts, wondering if I really would want her to be selected.

When I found the answer was blurred to my own eyes, I rephrased it in my mind. Would I want her to be rejected? The answer was a clear No. There were no reasons to reject her, and so she was appointed, and had to directly report to me.

I bring the cigar to my lips as I try to recall the earlier days I've known her. She always was the first one to come to office, and was the one who knew everyone by their first name basis, not caring about their cadre. She would give a genial smile to everyone, be it the security guard, or the senior manager. She made friends quickly, laughed easily, dedicated herself to work totally.

I do not know what I felt about her, but I knew it was not pleasant. Her behavior, her open mindedness disconcerted me. I have been difficult with her, yet she never complained, never raised her voice. Instead she tried to raise the levels of her caliber. At each step, she tried to give her best, and her non deterrence somewhere didn't sit well with me.

Little incidents all they were, not wishing on her birthday when she was surrounded by the office staff, taking out my blackberry and immersing myself in it whenever we had to share the elevator, avoiding her "Good mornings" with a curt nod. They were all insignificant incidents.

A fresh bout of wind ruffles my hair, as I let out the smoke through my lips. In spite of my cold behavior towards her, she was as genial to me as she was with any other person. Though she received the brunt of my anger most of the times, I never saw her raise her eyes from the floor. Days passed, I was promoted as a head into another department. I thought she would be ecstatic to get rid of me. But I knew I was wrong, when she came to congratulate me wholeheartedly.

I saw her less afterwards, though we were working in the same office. Occasionally we shared our elevator journey and this time, even I didn't wish her, she would be the first one to shoot a "Good morning" and smile at me.

Stubborn she was and a fighter. I have seen her voicing out the problems employees faced with elegance only she could carry. I have seen her standing up for her friend at one of the office controversies. I have seen her work, fight, and struggle. I saw her live and grow before my eyes.

I snap my hand at the burning sensation, and feel the cigar roll off from my fingers. The burn mark pricked the skin and I wonder if a trivial injury as this would hurt me, how it would have felt when a same cigar was pressed on an innocent's body, and how it would have felt when she was slapped and assaulted repeatedly. How would it have felt when the men forgot the sense and behaved like animals and violated her? I fist my hand at the thought, and walk back into my study, and my eyes would fall on the newspaper clippings that were piled up on my reading desk.

I feel a fist around my heart as I pick them up and pass my eyes over its contents like million times before. The hue and cry over a gang rape victim was published on the newspapers for week long. I see several students rallying, protests carrying, politicians releasing statements, and try to flip through them. If it were any other day, the news would have been just a news, another sensation which would fade into oblivion with time only if it was any other day…only if it were any other victim, except her; except Geet.

I flip through the papers, with heading "Gang rape of a young woman at…" to "Victim fighting for her life…"

I try to black out the blurry images and memories these words carried them with. I try to forget the worried faces and the hubbub at office the next day, I try to forget the news spreading like a fire, I try to forget the rage I've witnessed from the entire office, from everyone who knew her and who did not knew her. I try to forget the picture of her smiling face, which haunted for the next few days, I try to forget my anxiety when I try to contact her family. I try to forget the alien feeling when I see her lifeless form lying with so many tubes attached to her.

I get to hear she didn't surrender. I get to know she revolted, and I get to see the consequences she faced. She was not only raped, but tortured brutally. I try to forget how every day I prayed for her to come to consciousness. I tried to forget how, on one early morning, I got a message saying her condition was deteriorating. I try to forget the fist that clenched around my chest when I was informed about her being shifted to another hospital in another country by the government. I try to forget the painful hours, days I passed here, waiting for news that would ease my mind.

But the news I waited for never came, instead came a day where we faced a devastating loss. She passed away.

What was she to me? A friend? A colleague? An acquaintance? What was she really? I know the answer. Victim. She was my victim.

I've read the numerous articles that were written on her, stating how rape wasn't merely a sexual assault but a man's frustration and horrific act of inflicting violence for he couldn't tolerate the modern woman. How ironic that I, who was now mourning for the loss of a woman I knew, once committed the same crime, although in different context.

Wasn't I the one who couldn't tolerate her career growth? Wasn't I the one who felt disconcerted at the easy smile, at her candid way? Wasn't I the one who'd exploited and wronged her professionally, although she never knew it. What was the difference between me and those hooligans now? With a pang I realize, there was no difference. Just that I mask my male arrogance under professionalism, and look harmless to out lookers. Wasn't I a classic example of male ego and represented this patriarchal society?

As I sit here, alone in my study, I realize with a pang that I am one of the perpetrators, one of her perpetrators.

- - -

Originally posted by: aashluvsmaan

🤔

didnt like disclaimer..

gonnaa stay away..

where is my Epi😡

Originally posted by: -niti-

Its truly different 👏

You note at the beginning left me perplexed if to continue or not as my day wasnt that good .

I usually dont read sad ones at my bad days but went against my custom today and im glad that i read it sooner .

Rape - this is the word which keeps haunting me for 2 months . I started to read newspapers only to know if the victim had survived and the accussed got waht they deserved .

Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures

95% of the reality isn't happy and yours is in the bereft 5 %

Well described 😛

It did not bring tears to my eyes but it definitely hit the sof sapce in my heart ( if i have one 😳)

I just wished geet to be alive . i had always wanted the rape victims to stay alive and face the world .

My family tells that she need not live as this world will give her nothing but pain but i wated girls to stay alive and see the culprits burnt to ashes .

Sadly , India doesnt summon for death when the victim stay alive . The culpriit is hanged only if she is deed ...

Maan's character as a typical male chauvinist and his guilt is well potrayed

Nice work 😛