CSAAM -- April 2011 : A Few Thoughts

I just can't help but wonder what it is that motivates these abusers. Is it sexual frustration? Is it the thrill of forbidden fruit? Is it pure carnal lust??

What? What?!?!

It’s probably for the psychologists and behavioural scientists to study and figure out, but what kind of darkness might one possess in one’s heart to hurt and forever scar an innocent child?

I wonder about these questions very often, but I don’t have any answers. Not that knowing these answers would in any way help me make sense of what happened to me or help me forgive my abusers; it’s all just a very angry, metaphorical ‘WTF?!?!’

But my rants and raves aside, in hindsight do I really think my parents could have done anything? Did I give them any cause to worry about me? Was there ever any reason for them to be suspicious of anything?

The answer to all those questions is ‘No.’

No, I didn’t behave any differently. I was always the introvert book-worm with her head stuck in mountains of books. I was never given to spilling my insides, sharing my thoughts or having long-drawn conversation with either of my parents. I never had too many friends, was too busy negotiating my place in my different worlds, knew that my parents loved me and yet none of us were ever prone to bouts of physical affection.

I understood the feelings of shame and disgust I felt, but didn’t feel close enough to my parents to tell them. Probably because I understood that if I ‘told on’ these men, the repercussions would be severe, and I didn’t know whether my parents or I could deal with them. After all, it was about calling out the true nature of these men that my parents loved/trusted. How could I do that to them? I guess, I did not trust my parents with the maturity to deal with it. Or maybe I was scared of what their reactions would be.

Do I blame my parents? NOT AT ALL. Not even in the slightest. And I am not saying this because I have seen first-hand the sacrifices they both endured to bring my brother and me up. No, I am not saying this out of some misplaced sense of gratitude. I don’t blame my parents because they are not at fault.

The experts have said to watch out for behavioural differences in your child. Now that is an excellent point. But here’s the thing, I didn’t behave noticeably different. It was probably because the incidents of abuse were occasional and not sustained.

The thing is that you need to understand how your child’s mind works, what his facial tics are, watch out for new vocabulary, intense mood swings or any out of the blue behaviour.

While I did not exhibit any external manifestations as a result of the abuse, I did do one thing... After my uncle abused me, I did something that was most unlike me...I took an afternoon nap and that too with my mother, on her bed. I didn’t take afternoon naps and I had stopped sleeping with my mom for a decade! My mother was surprised and she even asked me if anything was wrong. I lied and said I wasn’t feeling well and she took me at my word. And why wouldn’t she?

Now, because this happened to me, I tend to obsess over the slightest deviation from usual, everyday behaviour in my sons’ expressions and body language. No, of course I don’t go all crazy and third-degree on them, but I do set aside some quiet time to find out if anything is bothering them. And I’m glad that I do, because I’m never wrong...there’s always been something bothering them – whether a fight with a friend, or something a teacher said, or even fear of admitting to me that they lost something in school.

So my piece of advice is, get your children to open up to you. A mother’s instinct is one of the strongest things there is. If your gut instinct is saying that there seems to be something not quite right, persist and find out what may be wrong. It could be as simple as a bad day at school. But you’ll feel better for asking, your child will feel better for getting it off his chest and most important of all, you’ll have laid down the foundations of a circle of trust for your child; a place where he knows he can say anything without fear and where he’ll know he won’t be judged, but rather, protected.

It’s what every child deserves.

CSAAM -- April 2011 : A Survivor's Story -- Mine

For years I have wanted to talk about this. I didn't know how. This initiative has given me the space and the courage to do so. If my story can help even one person, my effort will not be in vain...

The Repercussions of Abuse

A paying guest. My father’s friend. And a blood relative – my own uncle. What do these three men have in common?

Me.

All three of them are guilty of sexually abusing me.

All three of them are guilty of robbing my childhood.

Growing up in the States in the early 80’s and in Bangalore in the late 80’s and early 90’s, CSA wasn’t really talked about. Probably because people didn’t think it existed. After all, monsters like that belong in hell. Unfortunately, they take a stroll through Earth first.

What were the repercussions of my abuse?

Well, the first time I was abused, I must have been around six or seven years old, and it was by the paying guest we had at home in the States. It was a few times, but it was blatant, disgusting, rough and enough. And I was not alone. I know the monster pawed at my friends and at my parent’s friend’s children too. I didn’t understand the full import of it, but I do remember feeling terribly, terribly dirty. I felt unclean for a long time and I hated that feeling, so I did what I thought best...I blocked the memory out of my mind entirely. I forgot it ever happened until...

I was fifteen, living in Bangalore and an uncle abused me. It was just the one time, but it was all the more devastating because it totally shattered my self-esteem. He didn’t just sexually abuse me, but he played sick mind-games as well, commenting on my body, my puppy fat and my propensity to put on weight.

And a few years later, when I’d finally shed the fat and turned into a decent looking bird if not exactly the beautiful swan, my father’s friend tried to kiss me...a big, fat, slobbering smooch which I couldn’t wash off me for days.

The effect of each abuse was severe to the point of being extreme. As a result of the first episode in the States, there’s is a huge gap in my memory. I just can’t remember what my childhood was like. Yes, there are a few hazy memories, but nothing which stands out like a bright light; nothing that comforts me. I don’t even remember our trip to Disneyland. When the second episode with the relative happened, it brought all the terrible memories rushing back...along with other sad memories.

Today, I am severely, emotionally crippled as a result of this. I can only remember sad and unhappy things that have happened to me. My happy memories are non-existent. It’s almost like nothing good ever happened to me in my life. I am constantly depressed because of this.

It kills me to hear my family and friends reminisce about their childhood as they back-slap, guffaw with raucous laughter and hold their sides from laughing too hard. And there I sit like the harbinger of gloom; a person so mirthless she can only remember being teased and taunted throughout her childhood; a person who so looked forward to her wedding, desperately wanting it to be the happiest day of her life, except now when she thinks back she can only remember an aunt making her cry and other cringe-worthy episodes; a person who tries to write down every little moment of happiness she shares with her sons in the frantic and desolate hope that at least the written word will help her recollect the sunshine moments her boys have given her.

The other damage that is a direct result of the abuse, especially by perpetrators two and three, is that I have a terrible image of myself. I have a distorted body image, I have never felt pretty enough, I have always been on the plump side with no intention of trying to correct in my younger years and I have a depressingly low sense of self-esteem. I’m not worthy of anything good. When my uncle told me that I was too fat and that I needed to lose weight, I deliberately chose not to do anything, thinking that if I was fat, I would be too repulsive for him to want to touch me again. When the puppy fat finally shed of its own accord and boys began to give me a second glance, it felt nice. More than nice actually – it was a huge ego boost. So I started to take a little interest in what I wore and how I looked. But then that old man had to go and kiss me – and it shattered me once more. If looking pretty and having a sense of worth about oneself meant inviting the lecherous paws of men old enough to be your father, I wanted no part of it.

I’m in my thirties today. I don’t have any friends from my school days. I have just one bosom buddy from my college years. I am closer to my virtual buddies than I am to the people I socialise with. And it’s all because I have nothing happy to talk about. I have scared away many potential friends because I unburden myself way too quickly and share episodes from my life which should probably be reserved for the 100^th meeting or so.

I want my childhood back. I want my happy memories back. I want to be that sunshiney girl that I knew I once was.

Those bastards stole more than my innocence. They stole the very essence of happiness from my soul and everyday is a living hell.

'Flame & Grill' and other such memories

• Took the boys out for lunch today. The MIM also joined us, he just wasn't in the mood to work. The EO had been talking about a place called 'Flame & Grill' for the longest time. The last time we went there was over two years ago and yet he recalled every little detail; right down to the chair his brother was sitting in and the food he ate. Sometimes it amazes me what they remember and what their 'happy memories' can be.
• My three 'boys' loved lunch today. For the MIM, the impromptuness of it made it all the more special. What I won't forget is how the YO wolfed down piece after piece of fish tikka, asking for more -- yes, the same boy who sometimes needs to be force-fed most kinds of fish preparations at home! After a sumptuous dessert of ice cream and bite-sized gulaab jamuns, he actually sighed!! Now, I've seen him enjoy meals before but this was the first time I'd ever seen him actually sigh with delight after a meal well-devoured!!
• After lunch, the EO decreed that all future lunch outings are to be conducted in 'Flame & Grill' and only 'Flame & Grill'. The YO declared that the food was the "mosht delleechioush ever". While leaving, the EO patted his stomach and in all seriousness said, "What a feast!"
• The YO is still experiencing a happiness hangover and as I type this, he is fawning all over me. He has showered me with fifty "I laabh you's" and remarked what "byutifull nail polish" I'm wearing, what "byutifull handjj" I have and also "such byutifull face" I have. I have obviously melted into a puddle of much mush.
• The piece de resistance however, came while he was hugging me. He looked up from where his head was nestled (my chest region) and inquired about the purpose of my now defunct pouches since I didn't have babies in them anymore. He wondered whether Takur (Bhagwanji to some, Godji to others) would put another baby back there anytime soon. And FYI, the 'pouches' he was referring to are in fact my boobies!

CSAAM -- April 2011, Kicks Off

And the first post kicks off. A truly moving, first person account by a victim of CSA. Read it and discover why we, as parents, need to educate ourselves. http://csaawarenessmonth.wordpress.com/2011/04/01/csa-survivor-story-1/

This is followed by another victim's story. Read the powerful post written by one of my favourite bloggers ever -- The Mad Momma. http://themadmomma.wordpress.com/2011/04/01/csaam-april-2011-my-story/

Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month (CSAAM) - April 2011

There are monsters who walk amongst us. They prey upon the innocence of our children. They destroy their very childhood.

How can we make sure that they are not allowed to damage our children?

We can speak up about it. We can share stories and traumas. We can educate ourselves and in turn empower our children.

We can try.

Many of my blogger friends and I, have designated April as Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month.

If you would like to add your voice, or if you know somebody who would like to, please do any of the following:

a. mailed to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com OR

b. posted as FB notes and linked to the FB page OR

c. posted on your own blog with the badge and "CSAAM April 2011" in the heading and linked to the main blog OR

d. linked or posted on Twitter tagged twitter.com/CSAAwareness OR

e. sent via some/all of the above methods

Some topics are suggested here. Anonymous contributions are accepted and requests for anonymity will of course be honoured.

You can also show your support by displaying our logo on your website.

Please do support this initiative. Because unfortunately, monsters do not exist in fairy tales alone.

Just One of Those Days

It was already turning out to be one of those days.

Again.

At 8.30 in the morning!

Damn!

Meltdowns should really come scheduled and never so early in the morning...or in a public space...or when one was headed out...or before bedtime...or ever, really!

The little boy stood his ground, engaging his mother in a staring match. He was a little bull. But she was his mother after all. He could have been a big, raging bull on a rampage, but that wouldn't change the fact that she was big mamma. Her bovinity trumped his bullishness any day!

The four-year-old mite had an opinion on everything and strong ones at that; be it clothes, food, toys and even TV shows, he had a strong set of likes and dislikes. Today, he wanted to take his other bag to school; the yellow one. It wasn't even his, literally speaking; it was a hand-me-down from his elder brother, that's why when he'd started school, Mamma wanted him to have a new one. But this morning, the little boy had decided that he'd been carrying Mon. Lightening McQueen for long enough, and it was now Master Mickey Mouse's turn. Plus, it was a bright, sunshiney, yellow -- his most favourite colour of all! Didn't his Mamma get that?

His Mamma lovingly pointed out that the chain was broken and needed to be fixed. If he took that, his water bottle, tiffin box and napkin would all fall out. Didn't her little boy get that?

When he continued to stand his ground, she tried a different track -- all his friends would laugh at him. Nope, that didn't seem to dint his innate sense of self-confidence either. "So what?" his eyes challenged her. "You're not taking it!", she glared back.

Sigh! Terrible Twos and Threes is what anybody ever talked or wrote about. They were absolutely no bloody match for the Furious Fours!!

By this time, the night ayah and the day ayah decided to join in Operation Logical Might. The morning didi showed him over and over again that the chain just wasn't working. He got that, but he didn't care. The night didi said she would take it home with her now, get it fixed and bring it back with her that very evening. But he wanted to take it to school NOW! He looked at these three women, perplexed and a little angry, didn't they understand anything??

Finally, Mamma's patience, having been stretched to it's very possible end, snapped and she gave him his marching orders. He was to put on his Lightening McQueen schoolbag, march down the steps, go give his Baba a kissie and leave for school; with a smile if possible, if not, well then just leave anyway.

He marched down the steps. Sobbing his little heart out. If there was one person in the whole world who would melt at his sobs and shivers, it was his darling dad; a man he had so tightly wound around his little finger that all he had to do was raise his wail to a C sharp and it would transform his father into a snarling, growling beast ready to mow down anyone who had dared do his precious cub wrong.

Papa Lion immediately roared for Mamma Lion and she came down, pinned Papa Lion with a glare and explained the situation, then she wearily sat down at the breakfast table and picked up a newspaper, hoping that the headlines would be less frustrating than the battle royale being played out on her domestic front.

The little boy waited for daddy darling to order someone to go and get the bag from upstairs, but this time, even daddy darling spoke the language of the three thick-headed women. That same old spiel about the chain not working. He wailed harder, but daddy didn't budge; instead, he grew more firm and fixed him with a I-know-better-than-you-so-stop-crying look.

By now, his grandmother, who was sitting and having breakfast and watching the entire drama unfold, finally went to pieces and gathered her cherished cherub to her breast and tried to calm him down. With soothing words and dulcet tones, she also tried to make him see reason. From the safe haven of his grandmother's arm, the little brat continued to give his mother the stink eye. Next, the chacha came out of his room, picked up the little boy and tried to distract him with hugs, cuddles and kisses.

The night ayah came downstairs to say 'bye' to the brat and she even showed him the plastic bag in which she was carrying the offending piece that had generated so much heat, tears and tantrums, with the promise that it was going to come back all fixed and in working condition. By now, the chachi had come out to take him to school, where she happened to teach. She gave him a big squeeze, dried his tears and proceeded to walk with him towards the door. They were followed by a chorus of "Bye! I love you's" and "Have a nice day's." Just one voice was missing.

The Mamma's.

She said it softly, under her breath. He turned at the door, looked straight into her eyes and...slowly lifted his little hand, curled up in a fist save the littlest finger of all -- katti, the accepted and acknowledged gesture for the silent treatment; to say as eloquently as possible, "I don't like you anymore" without actually saying it. In other words, the equivalent of giving someone the finger -- in a totally innocent and child-like manner, of course.

Mamma felt sick. Not because of all the high-voltage drama that had been packed into the space of just half-an-hour, but because she hadn't been sleeping well the last few nights. She felt a fever coming on. She drained her tea down to the dregs, excused herself and went to her bedroom. She called her yoga teacher and cancelled; told her husband that she was going to bed, put the phone on silent and tried to drift off to sleep.

Of course sleep did not come easy. She kept drifting between the hazy world of dreams and the harsh sunlight of reality and in both it seemed as if she was being haunted by a pair of big, brown, beautiful eyes, brim full with tears, sadness and accusations, "How come you couldn't understand me, Mamma?"

She remained in bed, flitting unhappily between both worlds, an unwanted visitor in either, when she heard the doorbell ring. She registered it as belonging to the corporeal world and realised that the day ayah, not wanting to disturb her, had gone to pick up the young one from school. She heard the door open. She braced herself to face those eyes again.

"Mamma??! Mamma!!?" she heard him call out. She heard the ayah tell him that his Mamma was in the room. She heard his footsteps approach her bedroom door. Through the haze of her fever, she saw the shape of a little boy standing there, bright, perky, happy.

And then she heard him say with every ounce of feeling that he possessed, "Mamma, I love you now again."

Book Review: Chanakya’s Chant, by Ashwin Sanghi

When I read the first chapter of Ashwin Sanghi’s latest book, “Chanakya’s chant”, my jaw had dropped, my eyes were bigger than rasogollas, I was breathless and I was hooked! The words ‘fast-paced’ and ‘thriller’ seemed woefully inadequate, absolutely akin to calling Madhubala ‘cute’ or Van Gogh’s painting’s ‘nice.’ I thought to myself, how the hell was I going to write a review for a book that just bloody grabs hold of all your senses and plays puppet-master with you, using your guts entrails as puppet strings; sometimes words fall short.

The brilliance of this novel lies in the fact that there are two stories in this book, from vastly different epochs, with a common theme treading through the two narratives...political lust.

The first chapter takes us all the way back to 340 BC with an event that ultimately leads to Chandragupta’s coronation – the assassination of Paurus, emperor of Magadha. The subsequent chapters go further back in time, from the moment Chanakya, born Vishnugupta, India’s very own Machiavelli and father of the Arthashastra, vows revenge against the corrupt and debauched king Dhanananda for the brutal murder of his father, Chanak. The political cunning of Chanakya and his abetment in establishing a unified Bharat under the able leadership of his hand-picked protégé, Chandragupta, forms part of the novel. Running parallel, in interspersed chapters, is the story of Pandit Gangasagar Mishra and his machinations to make Chandni Gupta, a smart, lovely slum child from Uttar Pradesh, into the most powerful person of the country – the Prime Minister of India.

Sanghi demonstrates that the core of political thought and strategy hasn’t changed much over the years. So while Chanakya had a bevy of Vishkanyas at the ready, Gangasagar enlists the help of dancer-whores and B-grade film starlets. While Chanakya sends a tantric with a penchant for theatrics into the court of Mallayaraja, Gangasagar deploys a pavement astrologer to ‘prophesise’ future political events in the state of Uttar Pradesh. Blackmail, misrepresented facts and figures, gossip, torture and the bumping off of inconvenient human obstacles are all old hat in the art of statecraft and still remain popular means by which to run/rule a country. After all, human flaws and failings haven’t changed over the centuries...if anything, they have just gotten worse with time. And this is what Sanghi brings out brilliantly in “Chanakya’s Chant.”

But having said all that, I have to say, that after a while, the story, or rather the stories, become predictable. I guess the predictability stems greatly due to the fact that we are a nation bred on the greatest epic of all time, the Mahabharata, and the greatest entertainment industry in the world, Bollywood. The Mahabharata is undoubtedly a masterpiece and as anyone who has read it knows; it is full of political intrigue, treachery, trickery, lust, betrayal, revenge, blood and gore. So thanks to this and Bollywood’s obsession with political pot-boilers in the recent years, such as “Hu Tu Tu”, “Gangajal”, “Godmother”, the “Sarkar” and “Rakhtcharitra” series, and the blockbuster, “Rajneeti”, to name a few, after a point in time in the book, the twists turn out to be less ‘twisty’ and shocking, and you actually begin to not only expect them, but to predict them. And yet, despite this predilection for predictability, at no point does the book get boring. You still find yourself turning the pages in a reading frenzy, just like you would while on your 51^st Agatha Christie.

There were some gaps for me which caused much crinkling of the forehead. While Chanakya’s bloodthirstiness is properly delineated, Gangasagar’s lust for power remains a head-scratcher, as does Chandini’s. A glaring incongruity in the book is the many 21^st Century-isms mouthed by Chanakya’s contemporaries, inducing many an eye-roll and sigh of “Oh come on! Really!?!” Case in point? Well, phrases like, “The problem is that most things in life that are pleasurable are usually illegal, immoral or fattening”, mouthed by the repulsive, two-faced Rakshas, minister to Dhanananda. Or another ‘gem’ said by Chanakya himself, “No one’s a virgin, Nipunaka. Life screws them all.”

Two things I sorely missed in the book, were a list of the characters and a map of ancient Bharat. These two appendices would have greatly assisted the reader.

But there is a treat in store for the reader – a track of Chanakya’s chant, the Shakti mantra that appears throughout the story. Recited in Vedic tradition by Kushal Gopalka, the track has been composed in two parts; the first part with traditional Indian classical instruments and the second part, a more electronic take with fusion elements to give it a modern touch – very much in keeping with the structure of the novel, where modern mirrors the ancient. The track can be downloaded from www.chanakyaschant.com.

It is one of the many joys of this wonderful, double-tale of political savagery and intrigue in India. The final moral of the story? Some things just don’t change.