This post was written by Aban Mukherji in 2006. It speaks of a domestic violence incident which involved an acid attack and describes the author’s reaction to it.
How can one deal with experiences that cross the borders of language?
Yesterday my friend Vijaya, an experienced medical social worker at the J—- Hospital, baldly described the trauma of a patient. The ’sweet-looking young girl’ was brought from Pune to the J—- Hospital in Mumbai in a Sumo, crouched on her hands and knees on the floor of the vehicle for four hours. “She couldn’t sit,” said Vijaya, matter of factly, “because her buttocks were on fire.” I felt a band of steel grip my forehead, even before Vijaya started narrating the sequence of events, which brought this girl-wife across the threshold of the hospital. “A few weeks ago, her husband, who periodically tortured her, threw acid on her private parts, then inserted a bottle of Vicks VapoRub into her vagina before having sex with her. You should have seen her condition two weeks ago. It was horrible!” and Vijaya’s face puckered in a ghastly grimace. “Her pelvic region and buttocks are covered with huge sores and boils. But today she seems a little better. She will pull through”.
“Her pain was so great that she barely remembered crawling out of the house on her hands and knees. Her neighbours refused to come to her aid. How she reached her sister’s home is anybody’s guess. The police refused to register an FIR and S—- Hospital closed their doors on her.
In desperation she was brought all the way from Pune to J—- Hospital – her private parts, a mass of burnt flesh.” “But her face is so pretty and untouched,” she concluded. “And nothing has been done to arrest the husband. That psychopath is still at large! Dr. D—-, the head of the Gynaecological Dept is reluctant to allow reporters to interview the girl though the —- correspondent has managed to see her in Ward 32 of the hospital!”
After Vijaya left, my mother and I watched part of Schindler’s List. How could one put into words what the victims of brutality on such a vast scale had suffered? Even personal suffering, on a very modest scale, seems to freeze one into silence. Perhaps Vijaya’s tale, and Schindler’s List together proved too strong a dose for me and the horror brought on the old, familiar, nightmare which used to haunt me a few years ago, when I had come face to face with a woman whose face was a ghastly mesh of scars, eyeballs bulging out of their sockets, a mouth without lips with protruding teeth, cheeks, neck and shoulders a mass of raw, burnt flesh—the victim of an acid attack. She was standing on the overbridge spanning Queen’s Road. As I hurried past her, our eyes interlocked. I could not fathom their expression as they bored into mine. Was it pain, despair, detachment or utter numbness? I stumbled down the steps, feeling giddy and nauseous.
That night I dreamt that acid had been thrown on my face. I could not recognize myself. I knew I was me, but who was I? ” I know who I am.” I went on proclaiming to myself, hysterically. But I could not identify myself with that ghastly image and if I could not accept that image as myself, then, I was not ‘I’. In my dream, I distinctly remember covering myself with a sheet from head to foot. If I could not see myself and no one could see me, then, perhaps, I could be me. I awoke feeling hot and feverish, grateful to see my face unscarred.
Last night, I again dreamt of an acid attack. This time I was given a choice—your face or your vagina. I shielded my face with both arms, screaming, begging, pleading to spare my face. If my face went “I” would be snuffed out. I woke up with the shrill ring of the alarm before I could clearly articulate my choice. I lay quietly in the dark, knowing I would protect my face at all cost because I would not be able to bear the rejection reflected in the eyes of others. What could be covered and hidden could be denied but the denial of oneself by others would be unbearable.
Published with the author’s permission.
